


A Series of Engagements

by the_glow_worm



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Dinner Parties, Humor, M/M, Post-Series, Post-War, Romance, soaking up the goddamn Regency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_glow_worm/pseuds/the_glow_worm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The London season of 1814 finds itself descended upon by a veritable horde of dragons--and their eligible captains. Shameless Regency trash.</p><p>Tags, characters, and relationships to be added as they become relevant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dinner-Party

“I am so very deeply indebted to you,” said Temeraire again, earnestly, for perhaps the dozenth time that hour.

 

Lady Allendale received it graciously, however, and smiling said, “Why, Temeraire, I hope you should never have to hesitate to ask me for assistance. But what I have contributed, I am sure I do not know, for you have everything well in hand.”

 

Temeraire was happy to preen at this compliment, coming as it did from such an august source, but sadly this was not at all true. The place settings had been misplaced, just now, which would have placed Lord H— and Mr. N— together: an event sure to end in disaster, if not a fistfight. That would at least have taken care of the entertainment. Temeraire had grown particular in regards to musicians, and been much given to regret the quartet he had hired; but it was already done, the money spent.

 

“Are you sure, perhaps,” Temeraire began anyway, inquiring again after changing the entertainment, but Lady Allendale was firm.

 

“Quite sure, Temeraire. Your tastes are nicer than that of wider society, I dare say, but I believe they will do splendidly. And think, you have already contracted them for the night: if you were to cancel at this last moment, they would surely have no way to make up the lost income, unless you propose for them to play on a street corner tonight, in this cold.”

 

So with a sigh, he relented, but he was not satisfied.

 

“And the mangoes I have ordered from India, they have not at all arrived, even though Perscitia assures me that the dragon trading-route is very reliable—but _reliable_ would have arrived yesterday, and _very reliable_ the day before—”

 

“We will make do with plums,” said Lady Allendale. “Do you not fret, the dinner will be quite a success.” She accepted a cup of tea from a servant with graceful hands.

 

Lady Allendale was looking quite well, thought Temeraire, very pleased with himself, and congratulated himself again on asking her advice. She had certainly saved the evening, having thought of a number of delicate improvements that would never have occurred to Temeraire, and a dozen invitees who had been unaccountably dithering suddenly wrote and announced that they would be delighted to join. It was not as though he could not manage a dinner party, of course, but this was his first for men, and one did like things to be perfect. More importantly, Lady Allendale looked more herself. Her hair, which had grown a particularly beautiful shade of silver, was pulled back into an elegant bun, and she sipped at her tea with every evidence of contentment.

 

He did not need a consultation with Churki to confirm that he ought to consider her under his protection. She was Laurence’s only parent now, after all, and he sometimes spoke of her as if she, too, might be gone soon, which Temeraire did not understand at all. And she had always been very kind to him; he did not forget.

 

Temeraire looked at the sun: some hours yet until he could expect the first guests. It was a little too early for it, but as there was nothing else to do but worry and wait for the mangoes to arrive, he supposed he would go and get himself ready. A fortuitous decision, as it happened; many more pots of paint-black were needed than he entirely liked. This, of course, was evidence of his valor during the war, that he should have so many scars and dull marks to cover, but he liked them covered all the same. Then after the paint was dried, there was a question of his attire. Temeraire was only certain of wishing to wear his beloved talon-sheathes, which had come through the war without even a gem missing, until Lady Allendale had pointed out that he should certainly should be expected to eat, at his own dinner party, or his guests would be cast into confusion.

 

“Oh—” said Temeraire miserably, but she was perfectly correct as usual. He then required a great deal of her consultation as to which of his jewels could serve as adequate replacement. After several very serious discussions debating the merits of each of his possessions, which took some time, they eventually settled that he should wear his parliamentary sash, hung with all his many glittering medals, and a single enormous fire opal on a chain upon his forehead.

 

Only an hour remained until the dinner by the time all of this was decided. Laurence strode in to the pavilion exactly on time, just as he promised he would.

 

“I am perfectly impressed with the proceedings,” said Laurence in reply to Temeraire’s anxious inquiry, bending to kiss his mother’s cheek. “A most remarkable sight.”

 

This, Laurence could say, was the whole-hearted truth. The pavilion was dazzlingly decorated, with high hanging lanterns to illuminate the lapis lazuli ceiling, painstakingly inlaid with silver, and the sumptuous carpeting over the white marble was no less impressive. He recognized his mother’s hand in the decorations, but only as a matter of tasteful restraint; he was quite certain that without it Temeraire would have sheeted the walls in gold, as in an Incan temple, or hung curtains of silk and jewels from the ceiling.

 

The guests, when they arrived, were astonished even so; if perhaps too well-bred to show it. And, too, there was another factor in their silence. Temeraire was standing eagerly by the pavilion entrance to greet every guest, as was of course his duty as a good host; such was his excitement that he had bent his head down so as to more closely inspect each invitee, which only brought his long and shining teeth closer to his sharp-edged talons. That Temeraire had arranged for these latter to be painted in bright patterns in no way distracted from the general fear they inspired. His breath was curling back on itself in the cold, white against the shining black of his scales, so that he looked as if he was wreathed in mist, or smoke; an imposing portrait.

 

Several of the guests were climbing very slowly down from their chairs, so as to delay the fatal moment. These, Lady Allendale smilingly and mercilessly took by the arm and escorted directly up the stairs to meet their doom. Others came more daringly by dragon-courier, or even on the back of a fellow member of Parliament, and rushed up to make a show of talking with Temeraire fearlessly: the new pro-dragon faction in Parliament, Laurence guessed. He was amused to see that Temeraire had already enmeshed himself quite well with the radicals—but then, that was how the abolition movement had begun also, and indeed he saw several of those gentlemen amidst the gathering crowd.

 

But society as a whole was generally between the two extremes of fear and enthusiasm. Most of the guests walked into the pavilion quite normally, even a little eager to meet the war hero who was one of the latest members of Parliament. Laurence smiled at the sight, and turned away from his window. He had promised Temeraire to be there, and indeed he would be, but he had a letter to finish first.

 

_…and I know of no specific wrong committed by these two gentlemen, save for those instances of irregular behavior brought on by the vagaries of war, which I hope the Board does not consider worthy of attention. As for the rest of it, nothing of this alleged behavior was brought formally to my notice, and as such I can only treat it as rumor deserves. The dragons and crew of Captain Poole and Windle’s formations were of great value to the campaign, which must be its own testament._

 

Appending the usual formalities, he at last signed the letter and sat back looking at it without much satisfaction. There was something deeply perverse about his situation. That morning, a courier had appeared at their residence in the outskirts of London to summon him to urgent business in the city. Once there, it had been revealed to him that certain sources—and no, their Lordships did not intend to reveal who—had brought such information to them that they had no choice but to bring charges, the most serious of charges, against Captains Poole and Windle, who even now were in gaol awaiting trial.

 

They had been quite shocked when Laurence had not bothered to conceal his wrath at this endeavor. The very thought that the same Admiralty that had once given so intolerable an order as to force him to treason, that had struck an innocent and worthy officer from the service, that would certainly have found everything to approve of in Poole and Windle’s behavior at any time before victory had made Laurence ascendant instead, should now turn on these same two captains in hopes of pleasing him, was so very offensive that he nearly forgot to control himself.

 

Instead he quit the room and went directly to the London covert, there to make inquiries of several unfortunate passing officers, until he could root out the extent of the damage and how to repair it.

 

That it was his responsibility to fix could not be in doubt. There had been too expectant a quality in the faces of the gentlemen of the Admiralty, as if they only just held themselves back from winking. The persecution of Poole and Windle was a gift intended for him, he was very sure. It was ungodly, monstrous; it was also, Laurence thought with extreme irritation, a gift that the Admiralty could not easily take back. They had clearly intended to deliver the gift already neatly wrapped and in a bow, and could not simply quietly drop the investigation at this late stage, not without awkward questions. Well, Laurence _was_ , he supposed, a retired admiral; his understanding of the position was that his primary function now was to make a fuss.

 

So he spent his afternoon writing letters and handing them to courier-captains as the ink dried; then, taking one of the unharnessed coach-dragons to arrive home at the appointed hour, wrote several more. These he set aside, letting them dry. He would go out to one of the small ferals that were perpetual hangers-on wherever Temeraire happened to be, and see if he could ask one of them to deliver the letters in exchange for some coin.

 

To his dismay, however, the ferals had grown sufficiently secure in their position that their preferred currency was not coin, but rather gossip.

 

“Yes, for you see, nothing is much more exciting than _interest_ , and what gathers more interest than information?” asked Artis, who had been one of Ricarlee’s lieutenants during the war. “If I fly to London tonight, I may call upon Lady Brenlow, who you know wants to marry you to her daughter—or no, I see that you don’t! There, that is a new piece of information, and you may have that for free.”

 

She was plainly impressed with her own generosity. Laurence, mildly appalled, turned automatically at the sound of footsteps.

 

 “They have acquired a very acute sense for London society,” said Tharkay dryly, appearing in the circle of Laurence’s lantern light. “I suppose I ought to have warned you before.”

 

“I see they intend to be the terror of the season,” said Laurence blankly. “But I now find myself at a loss. These letters must reach London tonight.”

 

“You could offer them a secret,” suggested Tharkay. “Although at the price of one per letter sent, we shall all shortly find ourselves bereft of either privacy or communication.” He smiled, at Laurence’s frowning look, and addressed the ferals himself, who looked interestedly in his direction.

 

“I hope not to offend,” he said, “in offering my advice, but I have some experience in these matters.”

 

He went on with appalling frankness regarding certain aspects of human nature, while Laurence looked away and tried not to listen, and finally concluded with, “…the most valuable information, therefore, is not that which is given freely but which can be inferred from actions and behaviors; to collect that information, it is best not to interfere with the action unless necessary.”

 

The ferals cast appraising looks back at Laurence, who had after all approached them in the dark of night with a stack of urgent letters for London, and Artis reached out a forehand expectantly.

 

Stifling a sigh, Laurence allowed her to take the letters delicately between her clawtips and tuck them into the letter-carrier attached to her embroidered neck-ring. He and Tharkay stood watching her fly off into the cool night.

 

“I hope I have not greatly inconvenienced your London season,” said Tharkay, at length.

 

An amused snort escaped Laurence at this understatement. “It could hardly have been expected to improve from the way it began. Shall we not go in?”

 

“I’m afraid that there are too few of my enemies within, that I could discomfit, and none of my family members at all, or else I would join you. But I wish you great enjoyment of your dinner party,” said Tharkay, in only slightly ironic tones, and bowing strode away. Laurence was seized with an urgent desire to join him in escaping, but shook it off. After all that which he had asked of Temeraire during the war, he would not be churlish enough to refuse an appearance to a mere dinner-party.

 

He hurried to avoid being unforgivably late; even so, all of the guests had already arrived by the time he stepped foot in the room. Laurence found himself thoroughly punished for his virtue when the gathering, seeing him enter, burst into spontaneous applause.

 

“Oh, _there_ is my admiral,” he heard Temeraire say smugly, and Laurence grit his teeth and strode forward into the crowd.

 

Temeraire received him gladly; he _had_ grown anxious, when guest after guest had arrived and Laurence still had not come down from his rooms. But he saw now that Laurence had meant all along to make a properly dramatic grand entrance, despite his own modesty; Temeraire was deeply, deeply touched at the gesture.

 

Laurence looked regal, very regal indeed, as he escorted his mother at the head of the line of humans. Temeraire luxuriated in the sight only a little while before leading in the dragons afterward. This included Perscitia, of course, and Ricarlee, as well as some of the more reliable MPs that could be trusted not to gobble up everything in sight. Among this group was his old wing-mate Cantarella; she had, she smugly told him, easily won a plurality of votes in her district due to the efforts of her fellow Yellow Reapers, beating out Ballista and several others. The other representatives from the breeding grounds Temeraire had only known a little: a clever Grey Copper named Acertus, who had lost his captain in the war, and a retired Anglewing named Peregrina. Lily had toyed with the idea of running for office, much to Harcourt’s alarm, but eventually gave it up when it became clear that she would have to resign her post at Dover. It was too bad: Temeraire was sure that no one could fail to be impressed with a Longwing on their side.

 

They made a proper procession even so, as they took their places in the outer ring around the human’s table. Fanning his wings out a little to show to advantage, he made a short speech of welcome—penned by Lady Allendale, who was an elegant writer indeed—and gestured to the servants: the dinner had begun.

 

Conversation flowed volubly over the first course; swordfish, which Temeraire had caught himself only that morning despite the cold. Cut and grilled like a steak, the flavor was excellent, and everyone admired one particularly fine specimen that was laid out on the table; fourteen feet long from tail to tip, and the sharp upper jaw serving as a sort of kebab for apples and dates.

 

They progressed neatly through the next courses; roast duck, served in the Peking style, a rich beef and potato curry with mushrooms, and several lambs, dressed back in their wool and depicted cavorting through a bed of spring greens. This last was in all honesty a hopeful tribute to warmer weather that seemed to be out of reach forever; it was April, and still unreasonably, unseasonably, chilly.

 

Afterward was his crowning triumph. The mangoes had arrived after all, just in time to become an excellent pudding, mixed with sweet milk and studded with whole mango chunks and sugar crystals. The dessert had been meant to particularly impress Sir William Bouffant, one of the more influential voices in the House of Commons; he had spent a fond childhood in India, Temeraire had been able to gather, and was pleased to see that man sit upright in his chair like a boy at the smell of freshly cut mangoes.

 

“And it was pleasing above all things to have it go so neatly,” Temeraire gloated to Laurence, afterwards. “I was even able to corner Viscount Moore, and speak with him regarding the bill that Perscitia is forwarding next week; at first he was not very eager to discuss it, but by the end I do think I had him convinced. Oh! Laurence, what a splendid time, I should like to have such company every night.”

 

“You are well on your way to becoming a great society lady,” said Laurence, amused. He was laying on a cushioned sofa in the private chamber of Temeraire’s pavilion; the days were long gone when he could sleep on merely a cot or hard floor without being useless the next day. “My mother, I think, would have a great deal of useful advice for you. But I must warn you that the pleasure of these events wears thin rather quickly.”

 

“Not so thin, surely, or society would not have them so often. And it would be a great pleasure to meet so many more new people.” He gave a wistful sigh. “I understand that one cannot have too many guests at a dinner-party, or it quite defeats the point. But it should have been nice to invite more of society; Lady Brenlow was so very anxious to come, but of course _her_ husband would never vote with us, so it is no use to pretend that he would. And many other ladies have written and hinted that they would like to come as well; I do not at all understand why, as I have never met them and they have no relation to Parliament that I can see. I consulted Lady Allendale, naturally—” Laurence stifled a sigh as he thought of his mother’s reaction to this sudden influx of interested gentlewomen, “—but she had no opinion to give. Next time I shall have to invite them all, and find out what they are about.” He paused in sudden consternation, and finished mournfully, “—if only a dinner party was not so limited.”

 

“You shall have to throw a ball,” said Laurence sleepily, without thinking about it; a moment later he clapped his hand over his mouth, but the damage was thoroughly done. Temeraire glowed with immediate enthusiasm.

 

“Oh! A ball would be above all things excellent. I have never been to a ball. Laurence, do you suppose I would be expected to eat at a ball? I should so like to wear my talon-sheaths.”

 

Despite his own horror, and entirely against his volition, an image came into his mind of a dragon at a ball, filling out a dance card, or in a muslin gown perhaps, sipping on sherry; he laughed until tears streaked down his face, and drifted off into dreams, still smiling, to the sound of Temeraire’s demands to know what was so funny.


	2. A Social Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's this one line...I had to put it in cause I'm a sick person...but I'm really sorry about it...

The servant opened the door, bowing to the exact correct degree, and announced the arrival of Her Grace, Duchess of Sutherland; Laurence and Lady Allendale both rose from their seats at once, quietly putting down the newspaper they had been sharing, and made the appropriate courtesies with automatic perfection. Jane Roland strode in with her Hessians ringing on the floor, and without prelude remarked,

 

“I do tire of being announced that way—it is ever such a mouthful. But I do not mean to complain! Lady Allendale, you look well.” Her eyes moved on Laurence, who rose slowly from his bow. “And you, Laurence, of course.”

 

Laurence was tense with all the awkwardness of the situation, but neither his mother nor his lover appeared to feel any of it. They were well acquainted already, of course. Mechanically he joined them on the couches. They were able to use the sitting room sized for humans, Temeraire having taken Excidium to London to make an introduction to his bankers, so that he had only to cross the distance of an ordinary room; it seemed to take longer.

 

“I am in London for a week at least, some dratted infernal business with their Lordships,” Jane announced, sitting. “Yes, tea would be grand, thankee.”

 

“I am very sorry to hear of your troubles, but we are happy to have you for so long, I’m sure,” said Lady Allendale, with a barely perceptible glance towards Laurence, which he could not interpret. “And dear Excidium, I hope, will make a longer call on us?”

 

“Oh, I imagine he will, when he is not busy stuffing himself,” said Jane, with a waving hand. “Do you know, I have lately discovered him mis-managing his funds; some enterprising devils have gone and taught themselves dragon-cookery, so that now there are a dozen establishments outside Dover and London where a dragon might dine out. These he prefers to almost anything else—very uncreditable, after the moaning I have endured over a lack of fresh beef; now he gets fat on roast lamb.” Jane shook her head ruefully. “But I suppose his finances are his to do as he likes, and I will not say nay if he likes to have a few vices, dear creature.”

 

“Well,” said Lady Allendale, smiling, “we would certainly be happy to have him for dinner one night, if he should like; and we happen to have a very good supplier for lamb.”

 

“Why, that is a handsome offer, and it will be a relief to attend a dinner without minding my coronet. I have quite come around to the necessity of it, but I should prefer to be an admiral any day.”

 

They passed a few more pleasant exchanges, with Jane asking after the rest of the family—Laurence’s brother, the current Lord Allendale, was also in town for the season with his wife and five children—and this led very neatly to Lady Allendale asking in return after Emily, who had been no more than twelve when last they met.

 

“She is spending her hours in idleness, I suspect, and cursing me for it. I plan for her to have experience as an officer of a Longwing before she takes up Excidium; my thought was to have her on Mortiferus, but Captain St. Germain has never really recovered from that bad leg wound she received in Portugal, poor fellow, and Mort simply doesn’t have much heart for the service any longer. They both of them retired a month ago. I have been scrambling for another ever since; Lily is the obvious choice, yet—”

 

Lily and all her formation had, apparently, learnt bad habits from the Incan dragons; they were now inclined to be aggressively attached to all of their crew, not only their captains, and could only be parted with any member under extreme inducement, the most preferred of these, of course, being a bank transfer or an equivalent amount in jewelry.

 

“They are quite aware of all of our bride-prices, I assure you,” said Jane dryly. “Any proposed transfer is an immediate hue and cry; we are obliged to allow the dragons to engage in negotiations amongst themselves, which of course they do with the highest enthusiasm. I shall have to think of some way to maintain discipline, but never mind.” She gave an amused snort. “I am sure you tire of this service gossip. The long and short of it is, Lily is quite unwilling to part with one of her own midwingmen to let on Emily, and her complement does not allow for another. So she will have to wait until one of the new-hatched Longwings is ready to pick out flight crew, which will not be for some months yet. You can imagine how glad she is to be kicking her heels uselessly,” she said, this last to Laurence.

 

Laurence could imagine, very well.

 

“I hope she is enjoying the opportunity to rest,” he said diplomatically. “She has certainly deserved a furlough, I do not think she has stepped foot in England in the last five years or more.”

 

“Yes, and she might sigh for it, but I am glad to have her with me. I am obliged to you by the way, for procuring Mrs. Pemberton; a most sensible creature, now that I have met her, and far from as useless as Emily has painted in her letters.”

 

Laurence was sinkingly aware that this was the first his mother was hearing of Emily’s chaperone, and his evident role in arranging for her; it was sure to vanish any remaining doubts Lady Allendale had regarding Emily’s paternity. This assumption, however, had for years been planted firmly in his mother’s mind, and Laurence had long since given up hope of uprooting it, so he was able to practice philosophy and not cover his face in his hands.

 

“I am glad they are both well,” he said instead, and by way of changing the topic asked after the other former members of his crew.

 

Lady Allendale was not to be deterred by so obvious a tactic as this, however, and by small masterful strokes drew the conversation back to Emily Roland, despite all that Laurence could do to prevent it. But Laurence had learned the art of conversation at her knee, and the war had been lost before it began. He sat back in resignation.

 

“Perhaps,” she said, and Laurence grew blank-faced as she began to suggest, delicately, that Emily might enjoy the London season while she was on leave. Jane listened frowningly to this.

 

“Here now, I don’t mean to be a stubborn old donkey, in the face of all your good advice,” she said, “and I have done a fair enough job of making sure she can handle skirts, but my Emily wouldn’t have the first idea how to be out in society.”

 

“There is nothing to it at all,” said Lady Allendale, without perfect truth. “I am sure there are details she may not already know, as of course a serving-officer cannot be expected to be in the latest fashion by necessity of her service, but I would be happy to lend my own guidance to her.”

 

There was a little too much eagerness in her voice—although perhaps only Laurence perceived it—that kept this offer from being entirely artless. But Laurence’s only niece would not be out in society for five years at least, and would likely need no more guidance than that provided by her own mother.

 

“That is very kind,” said Jane. “But you know I don’t hold much for balls, and I expect neither will Emily. Damn silly nonsense if you ask me, begging your pardon. And isn’t it true that she would have to be presented to the Regent, or some such foolishness?”

 

“A formality we can dispense with, I think,” said Lady Allendale calmly, while Laurence struggled not to imagine Emily Roland performing a court curtsey with a heavy plume of ostrich feathers on her head.

 

Jane looked skeptical, perhaps imagining the same thing; and then, to Laurence’s surprise, she shrugged.

 

“I suppose it can do her no harm to be out in society,” she decided. “And better that she learns how to now, rather than when she will inherit after me. She’ll have it easier if she can attend a rout without skewering a fellow.”

 

“Or at least with something other than a sword,” said Lady Allendale demurely. “Would you care for some biscuits?”

 

Laurence managed a word with Jane on the way out, by way of throwing subtlety to the wind and offering to escort her out to the courier-dragons, as she had arranged to meet Excidium in London.

 

“Much obliged,” said Jane only, and of course Lady Allendale said nothing at all.

 

They strode out across the fields together, sending a scullery boy running ahead with a flag in order call down the ferals, who were aloft in play.

 

“A fine estate,” said Jane, gesturing vaguely at the pavilion-manor behind them. “I suppose you could not fit it all in London proper.”

 

“No, neither would our frequent houseguests be especially welcome,” said Laurence dryly, although a moment later he frowned as he thought about Artis calling upon Lady Brenlow, that lady being situated in the heart of West End.

 

“You’d be surprised,” said Jane, coming in neatly upon his thoughts. “Dragons are quite the newest thing in society, or so I hear. Your mother’s doing, I think.”

 

“Very many things are,” said Laurence. “I only hope Emily does not mind it.”

 

“She is a sturdy creature, she will land on her feet,” said Jane, without much concern. “ _You_ , Laurence, give me more trouble than she ever did.”

 

Laurence paused, and said;

 

“The business with the Admiralty. Poole and Windle.”

 

“Well spotted,” said Jane dryly. After a moment of silence she snorted and went on.

 

“It is no use being angry, as I suppose you will tell me that your principles wouldn’t allow two insubordinate rascals from being struck the service. Well, begging your pardon, but your principles can go hang. If they had behaved to Wellington as they had behaved to you, he would have had their heads off already. And so would I have, for that matter. But you would not let the Admiralty, however wrongly, hit the hammer down on the right nail for once, and so now I have been dragged into it, under the thought that I would be able to handle you.” She shook her head. “If they had bothered to consult me in the first place, they might have saved themselves the trouble, but of course that would not do for them.”

 

“I am very sorry to have caused you more concerns,” Laurence began, but Jane waved it off.

 

“Dear fellow, I suppose you have earned the right to be as much of a bother as you like. I am only getting a little long in the tooth for it.”

 

The scullery boy had won an argument with one of the littler ferals, who now bounded over to them.

 

“Even so, I hope it is not such a burden as all that,” said Laurence, very quietly. Jane smiled sidelong at him, tapping the back of his hand with her fingers, and Laurence abruptly felt as light as a kite, some tension lifting that he had not noticed weighing down his shoulders as the conversation progressed.

 

“I have business tonight,” said Jane, before the feral reached them. “But do you think you will come tomorrow night?”

 

“I would be glad to,” said Laurence, and lifted a hand to her in farewell as the feral bounded up into the sky and towards London.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Rothschild is all that one looks for in a banker,” said Excidium, “I must call myself very satisfied to have met with him.”

 

“Oh yes,” said Temeraire with enthusiasm. “And his people are very quick about giving back an answer, if one should ever inquire into the state of their funds; not that it is not very easy to calculate, of course, but it is very satisfying to ask, and be told to the hundredth of every pence.”

 

They climbed into the air above the London covert, where the line of dragons outside the Rothschild draconic office still nearly stretched over the edge of the grounds. Mr. Rothschild had very graciously made a special appointment to see Temeraire and Excidium, so _they_ had not had to wait, but most of the dragons were still waiting to see Pretiosus, the much-envied Malachite Reaper who was the newest hire of the Rothschild bank.

 

Excidium, having already made plans to meet with Admiral Roland, flicked his wings in farewell and spiraled down to her house just on the edge of the covert. Temeraire flew on to the city; he had business in Parliament.

 

Although, it was not _quite_ Parliament; the members of that body had been obliged to enlarge St. Stephen’s Chapel to accommodate the new members of the House of Commons, as Perscitia had been just able to fit inside by squeezing her wings in tightly and hunching, but Temeraire could certainly not do the same.

 

They had been inclined to drag their heels nonetheless, citing the cost and labor and architectural concerns and so on and so forth, until Temeraire had earnestly offered to take down the chapel walls himself, after which there was no more delay.

 

Still, the work went very slowly, and Temeraire thought with longing of the day when it would be completed; it was not very comfortable to crouch outside every other day, amidst all the work debris, and wriggle his neck forward absurdly in order to hear the proceedings; nor was it pleasant to have to hear all the complaints on all the other days, when the human members came into the covert, even though it was very obvious that Temeraire’s pavilion, which he had very reluctantly ceded over to public use, was more comfortable for all. But still they alternated back and forth, by means of making everyone unhappy, for longer, when it was clear that if they would only agree to meet at the pavilion every day, the workers could finish their construction in half the time.

 

But this argument did not seem to have much impact, when Temeraire repeated it for the umpteenth time to Parliament, and after another fruitless session, he and the rest of the draconic representatives retired to Perscitia’s offices, in the London covert.

 

“I did not expect it would all be easy,” said Temeraire in some dismay, “but it need not be so—so—” he struggled for a moment to find the right word, that would not be too _excessively_ insulting, and then of course Ricarlee took the moment to jump in.

 

“Well, _I_ am not so ungrateful,” he pronounced smugly, as well he might; he was currently being paid the standard sum for members of parliament, without once having made himself really useful. “And I should think that I have more right to complain than anyone, on behalf of all the ferals. It’s clear as day that nothing is being done for us.”

 

“Nothing is being done in general,” complained Cantarella; she was brooding another egg, and Temeraire could not help but notice that it made her irritable.

 

“That,” said Perscitia in exasperation, “is a very ridiculous thing to say. When you consider our general state of affairs only seven years ago, and consider that now we can live where we like, even outside of the breeding grounds and coverts, and seek out work that suits us, and get paid for it; we even have twenty members in Parliament, the majority of which,” she added sternly to Ricarlee, “are ferals.”

 

“That is very well,” said Temeraire, before Perscitia could expand on _her_ part in bringing this about, which she liked to boast of as if there was no one who had brought her out of the breeding grounds in the first place, “but when you compare what has been done to everything we have yet to do, it seems very small indeed. Even outside of improving the circumstances for ourselves in this country, we must think of our obligations towards our fellow-dragons across Europe, and Persia; they have all signed all Concord as well, and we must bring Parliament towards caring somehow.”

 

“It is very difficult to make men of different countries across Europe to work together,” said Perscitia. “It is difficult to make men do anything together, in general, if they have any kind of difference to expound on, and especially so when it comes to dragons.”

 

“I do not see what is so difficult about it,” said Temeraire. “I have never noticed much difference between an English and a Prussian, particularly in regards to the treatment of dragons. The Chinese, naturally, are superior in that regard, and the Tswana are not so bad either.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps there should be some sort of structure in place, so that dragons across Britain and the Continent can ensure that European countries can honor their agreements, and that will also allow for trade and movement and such, so that if dragons don’t like how they are treated in any one place, they may go freely to another. A league, or a union perhaps—”

 

“Excuse me!” interjected Perscitia. “I think we have quite enough to do at home before we go on thinking about unions and such.”

 

A general murmur of agreement went around, which deflated Temeraire somewhat.

 

“I suppose it is true that we must be strategic,” he conceded. “But with so many things to get done, what shall we have to do first? And we _shall_ have to press Parliament to care about protecting those ferals, who were good enough to throw in with us during the war, for if we do not, no one will.”

 

“Hear, hear,” said Ricarlee.

 

“In my opinion, we ought to begin with delayed harnessing; for it is all very good to say that dragons may choose any profession they wish, but if they are already bound to a captain on their first moment, most of them will do what he likes, which is fight,” said Acerus, causing Perscitia to flinch and look downcast at the reminder; her captain had left her when she would not fight. “Not that I do not like fighting, and I—I miss my dear Tooley very much,” –his voice wavered on the line. “But I do not think I would have chosen the Corps if not for him.”

 

"Yes, I do see the argument in that,” said Temeraire slowly; he would not at all have liked to _not_ have Laurence on his first day, but he did see how easily it could go wrong. “And it allows us also to avoid captains that are unworthy, such as that devil Rankin,” and the harnessed dragons all nodded somberly, as they were all familiar with the story of Levitas.

 

“I don’t suppose that does naught for us,” said one of the ferals. Temeraire remembered him vaguely, he had brought them information a few times during the invasion.

 

“Of course it does,” said Perscitia. “For it establishes unharnessed dragons as the natural state, and so ferals seem quite normal and expected, and men are not so keen to push you out. Once we get this passed, you may be sure that we will establish property and hunting rights, and so on. Only you would not believe the fuss and bother men put up with any law to do with property, so we must start with the smaller changes, first.”

 

This met with universal agreement, with even the ferals nodding.

 

“And we shall have to establish schools,” said Perscitia, and everyone soon began to contribute ideas.

 

Temeraire winged back to the manor that evening, energized. Laurence met him in the foyer as he came in, folding his wings to his back.

 

“Your meetings today were productive, I hope,” said Laurence, and Temeraire needed no further prompting to fill him in on every happy detail. “And even Cantarella let on that it was a good idea, which no one but Chalcedony can do these days—oh, they have reconciled, by the way—and we shall bring it up to Parliament at the next session.”

 

“I congratulate you,” said Laurence, but he looked troubled. Abruptly he asked,

 

“Temeraire, would you be so good as to point me towards Mr. Tharkay?”

 

“Why, Tharkay has gone for business,” said Temeraire, surprised. “This morning, before Excidium came. Did he not tell you?”

 

Laurence’s voice sounded oddly flat, as if removed from his own answer.

 

“No,” he said. “He did not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	3. A Trip to Town

“I beg your pardon, this is not my destination,” said Laurence, thinking that Artis might have mistook her place, but the feral only stretched out her wings lazily and yawned.

 

“Oh well,” she said, rather too airily for his liking. “London all looks the same to me. I’m sure it’s not far to walk.”

 

This suggestion, Laurence hardly knew how to respond to; Artis had never before shown the slightest difficulty in navigating London, and the distance, while indeed not very great, was an additional forty minutes with all the morning traffic that London could conjure. These points were heard without great sympathy, or indeed even acknowledgment, and shortly she had winged away and left him standing bewildered.

 

He had been deposited outside the front door of an elegant brownstone, and even as he stood before it the door opened, spilling out a tall, coltish girl, who in her haste to be out of doors then trod upon the hem of her skirt—she having dressed somewhat carelessly, as if in haste, little though Laurence liked to make such observations of a lady.

 

She flailed precipitously on the top step, her arms windmilling, before going over the edge; Laurence, much startled, hastened forward and by some happenstance of timing, was able to pluck her from the air with his hands around his waist.

 

The girl weighed no more than a child, for all her height; she stared at him with huge eyes as he set her lightly on her feet.

 

“I hope you will forgive the imprudence, madam,” said Laurence, devoutly glad for the early hour, which meant that few were about to see. “I assure you I meant no disrespect by the gesture.”

 

He bowed to her, and still receiving no return beyond her doe-eyed staring, took that as his cue to leave.

 

“Oh, how gallant you are,” cried a voice, and Laurence turned with some trepidation to see what could only have been the girl’s mother, herself teetering on the top stair. Laurence eyed her warily, but she regained her feet and came swanning down the stairs.

 

“Lady Brenlow,” he said grimly. “A great pleasure to see you again.”

 

“Oh, how kind you are to remember me, my dear William! I should not blame you in the least if you did not recognize an old woman like myself, whose beauty has all faded away—” Lady Brenlow being no more than nine and thirty—“We have each of us changed such a great deal since we were dancing together at Lady Whitfield’s ball, have we not? What a wonderful night that was! I am sure I could never forget how well you looked in your lieutenant’s uniform.”

 

Laurence himself remembered that night very vaguely. He had spent most of his brief furlough in London in company with Edith, and only good manners had dictated that he fill out his dance card with Alice Barton, as she was at the time. Beautiful eyes in a pale face; not very graceful, however, and rather innocent of decorum, so Laurence could say without much untruthfulness that she had not changed at all since that time.

 

“What a flatterer you are,” cooed Lady Brenlow. “Have you met my daughter, Margaret?”

 

And so of course Laurence rather impatiently had to bow over her hand and declare himself very pleased to meet, thinking to excuse himself on the basis of his walk through town.

 

“Why, Margaret and I were just headed that direction,” said Lady Brenlow gaily, as if society ladies routinely woke at all before midmorning, much less went out on errands. “You are most welcome to ride in our carriage.”

 

Laurence regarded her with dismay; she knew as well as he did that he could not ride through town in a carriage with a young lady he had only just met, even chaperoned by her mother, and still call himself a gentlemen afterwards unless he intended to pay serious court to her.

 

“I thank you, I would prefer to walk,” he said instead, and bowing took himself away to Lady Brenlow’s great disappointment.

 

The usual shroud of London mist was particularly light that morning, and some of the people on the street clearly gave him startled looks of recognition, particularly as he drew closer to Whitehall. Perhaps his severe look and clipped pace discouraged them, however, as they did not approach, and he was able to enter the Admiralty building without speaking to another soul.

 

Particularly fortunate, as the scene within was not designed to lift his spirits. The lords of the Admiralty were to a man coldly furious, which Laurence’s own temper was more than ready to allow, and so the room had a frigid atmosphere that had nothing to do with the unseasonable chill. Their eyes looked out at him with a redoubled hatred, just barely short of knives drawn.

 

Laurence could almost understand their feeling. He had in a sense rejected a peace offering, surely undertaken at some trouble, all for a man that they had reason to hate. But Laurence would not buy his good graces at the expense of other men, even such as Poole and Windle. He could never have accepted such an olive leaf. There would be no peace between himself and the Admiralty, and no reason to expect that there ever would be; while Laurence maintained as icy a demeanor as he could support, the lords of the Admiralty grew rather more choleric than not as the meeting wore on.

 

“I shouldn’t wonder that a known _traitor_ should take such a view on the matter,” said Lord Melville, spitting the word as if he imagined that Laurence could still be hurt by it. He was the current First Lord of the Admiralty, taking the place of Mr. Yorke since the shocking assassination of Mr. Perceval the previous year had precipitated a change in government. Laurence could not say he liked him better. “I suppose this is what aviators think of as discipline, to allow any kind of shocking conduct, astounding that you should have—” And here he cut himself off: it was impossible to reprimand Laurence for the lack of unity in his forces without also knowing their own role in it, impossible also to freely call him a traitor without remembering that he and Temeraire had captured Napoleon and ended the war.

 

“For my part, I would be delighted to have a full and public accounting of any wrongdoing that might have taken place during the war, if that is what you gentlemen are indeed proposing,” said Laurence, coolly polite. “I am sure that there would be no stone left unturned in such a scenario, and that the public would have the liveliest interest in the proceedings.”

 

For the first time, the lords of the Admiralty had nothing to say. Laurence supposed, with very little sympathy, that they could not like the idea of entering into a bout of public opinion with the hero of the Battle of Nations, and after a few more rounds of bluster, the meeting was concluded.

 

Laurence did not expect to receive their permission to see the prisoners, but he made the request anyway, and found himself suspicious to find it granted immediately. He thought perhaps they hoped to disappoint him; perhaps they believed him to desire gratitude, and that he would drop his objections from disillusionment. If so, they were mistaken. Laurence was well-acquainted with the natures of his erstwhile captains, and did not act primarily for their sake.

 

Still, he felt an obligation to see them, and was already preparing himself for the unpleasantness to come when he stepped out of the front doors of the Admiralty building, and was at once and from all directions ambushed by messengers.

 

The message-boys were none too passive about seeing their letters delivered; they had apparently been waiting since nearly the very moment he was spotted entering the Admiralty building that morning, and had developed something of a rivalry amongst themselves within those few hours. They clamored now to be the first to thrust their message into Laurence’s hands, shoving each other out of the way. A few of them went so far as to open the letters and wave them into his face, shouting all the while.

 

One of the opened letters was, perhaps predictably, from Lady Brenlow, who wished to call upon him at home if it were convenient; Laurence wondered if her shocking boldness stemmed more from some insensibility in her character, or from the general disreputability of aviators, which might have made her feel that license would be less remarked-upon. Lady Wrightley also wished to invite him to a ball, and several others as well, including Mrs. Melbourne, whose husband was certainly one of Temeraire’s staunchest political enemies.

 

Laurence did his best not to receive any of these, and with rather more haste than dignity made his way into the street to hail a hansom-cab, whose driver eyed him skeptically.

 

* * *

 

 

The prison was much as Laurence was expecting, cramped and miserable—save that it was on land. He would not have wished one of those floating, miserable hulks in the Thames upon anyone; yet while Obituria or Fidelitas did not present quite the destructive power that Temeraire had, they were both of them more than capable of finding and smashing through a building to come to the rescue of their captains.

 

He was not able to wonder at it long; no sooner had he entered the cell that the two captains shared than Poole had gotten up from his filthy cot and spat at his feet.

 

Laurence surprised himself with an immediate, hot sense of distaste; he had thought himself long past any reaction that Poole and Windle could have stirred in him. It did not rouse any outright anger, however, and after a long moment in which Laurence considered turning on his heel and leaving, he said;

 

“I have come to be sure of your comfort, and to see to any pressing needs you may have; I would also be happy to carry any messages you might like to convey, to your family and to your dragons.”

 

Poole only gave out a laugh, unpleasant and short.

 

“From you, the instrument of our destruction?” he asked incredulously. “And you now grow so concerned with our _comfort_ , and our _needs_ ; perhaps we are the French, for you to be so solicitous? Damn you, Laurence. I will not stand here and be mocked by a traitor.”

 

“I have every hope that you will soon be released,” Laurence began.

 

“Oh, I am sure,” hissed Poole, vicious. “When you are the reason we are here rotting away in the first place, you should find it very easy to spring us from this prison! I have known all along what kind of snake you are, Laurence, no less a black-hearted animal than that devil of yours, a tongue only in your mouths to lead others astray; well it shall not work on me, and it never will. I hope the coronet you have won brings you joy, for you shall never have the satisfaction of seeing _me_ brought to your heel.” His face was contorted with fury, and he would have gone on, but his companion broke in upon him. Windle turned from the far corner, where he had been facing the wall.

 

“That’s god damn enough of your whinging,” said Windle savagely. He looked up at Laurence. “Just let them hang us already. You must know our dragons have already left us.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Yes, it is true,” said Jane heavily, putting down her port untouched. “And I am having a devil of a time trying to keep in contained in the Corps, I do not mind telling you.”

 

“I suppose that is why the Admiralty had no objection to my seeing them,” said Laurence.

 

“Well, as for _that_ , I should not be surprised if they would like you to shout it in the middle of London, so much the better for humiliating the Corps.” Jane shook her head.

 

Laurence had no reason to doubt her, even taken aback as he was. It was a petty, shortsighted stratagem on the part of the Admiralty, but he could not be surprised by that alone. Yet this news would certainly be a shocking blow to the very foundation of the Corps. Every captain was, if nothing else, absolutely assured of the loyalty of his dragon. There was never a danger of mutiny on board a dragon, nor was there any discipline that could hold a captain while his beast was alive. The bonds of true affection held together most pairings of dragon and aviator, yet that—as captains knew very well—was not necessary to win a dragon’s loyalty. From the moment a dragonet broke the egg, he would rather suffer at his captain’s hands than be parted from him.

 

“How long do you imagine it will stay secret?”

 

“Laurence, I should be glad if it is not now already reaching every ear in the Corps.” Jane looked tired. “I believe the dragons already know. This morning Excidium would hardly let me out of his sight, though he denied knowing anything of it.” After a moment she looked up and laughed at her own expense.

 

“There is no use wrenching our hands over what we can’t avert,” she continued, sensibly. “Still, dear fellow, I would be grateful if you might keep your mouth closed on the matter.”

 

“Of course,” said Laurence automatically. “And any other assistance I might offer—”

 

Jane gave him her crooked smile. “Peacetime is more complicated than I had hoped,” she said. “If you’d like to lend me some help, perhaps you can go and fetch out old Boney, and we might simplify things once again. Or,” she added, “we can more fruitfully occupy our minds,” and taking his hand firmly led him—eventually—up the stairs.

 

Only later, as Laurence lay thoroughly sated with his cheek resting on Jane’s thigh, did she say, in an offhand way—

 

“Oh, I suppose I did not mention it before, but Emily has already arrived from Dover.”

 

As Jane had somewhat methodically undressed Laurence throughout their slow progress up the stairs, and subsequently his flying jacket, coat, neckcloth, undershirt, belt, boots, stockings, trousers, and hair-ribbon were littered at various distances outside the bedroom door, and certainly within view of any other residents of the house, he could not receive this information with any equanimity.

 

“Well, she’s going back with you tomorrow morning,” said Jane, waving away his distress. “I have arranged that she should meet Lady Allendale.”

 

This piece of news did not put Laurence at ease; quite apart from cementing the illegitimate, yet wholly mistaken connection between the two, he had doubts of their meeting being an entirely felicitous occasion. His mother had last met Emily when she was twelve and a far less willful creature; she was besides this grown old enough to suspect the foundation for Lady Allendale’s interest in her. Jane could shrug off the assumption; Laurence suspected that Emily would not be so cavalier, and found that he was rather dreading what she might have to say.

 

“Very good,” said Laurence, of course.


	4. A Coming-Out

The news that Emily Roland, the daughter of Her Grace the Duchess of Sutherland, was out in society seemed to spread faster than even dragon wings could carry it, and Laurence thought to himself dryly that he would have liked to receive his intelligence in the war only half as quickly as society seemed to receive their gossip. But Mary, the serving maid, was walking out with Tom, the footman at the Gordon residence, and _he_ had mentioned it to the boys who drove for Lady Bracken, who had passed it along to the chief chambermaid, and then that very day Lady Bracken had thrown a card-party at which it formed almost the only topic of conversation; in short, according to Temeraire’s summation of events, all of London society had known within the afternoon.

 

“I see,” said Laurence at last, faintly shocked.

 

“ _I_ think it’s exciting,” said Temeraire. “Will this mean we can hold a ball here? I would so like to have a ball.”

 

“I shall leave that up to you and Lady Allendale, I am sure,” Laurence managed, although his first instinct was certainly to suggest that they leave the country. “But perhaps Mr—I mean to say, Miss Roland’s wishes should be consulted on the occasion.” He was certain that Emily would be vocal in her opposition.

 

But Emily, rather to his surprise, had been getting along extraordinarily well with Lady Allendale. Nearly every day saw her having tea with Laurence’s mother, much to Temeraire’s delight and approval. Temeraire had not quite been able to support the idea that retiring from the service meant that he should not retain his crew, and was happy to let Lady Allendale facilitate Emily’s transfer back to, as he saw it, her rightful place.

 

Lady Allendale, when Laurence had tentatively broached the subject with her, had seemed equally enthusiastic of Emily’s merits; opinions Laurence shared, naturally, but formed in his judgment of her as a promising young military officer rather than as a society lady.

 

But Lady Allendale was not to be denied, even if Laurence had wished to deny her, and she and Temeraire were promptly engaged as busily as thieves in planning all manner of engagements. Laurence, seeing his fate sealed, gave himself over to resignation.

 

He was fairly certain still of having a partner in his reluctance. Unexpectedly willing to please Lady Allendale she might be, but that alone did not turn Emily Roland into an eager dancer, and as they fenced back and forth in the small courtyard behind the gardener’s shed, Emily struck at him with more than usual force, compelling Laurence to deflect it so strongly that both their practice swords went flying.

 

“I know many young ladies who did not enjoy being out in society at first,” offered Laurence tentatively, as they retrieved their foils from the dirt. “Being a serving-officer, I am sure it is not necessary for you to be held to the usual standard.”

 

Emily only scowled and mumbled something. Laurence hesitated.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I said, I have nothing better to do!” Emily glared. “Nothing except wait for orders, which shan’t come for months anyhow, and letters from—” Here she flushed an angry color, which left Laurence in no doubt to whom she meant; he was grown sufficiently used to Emily’s independent turn of mind not to be surprised that she and Demane were writing to each other openly. He could only muster a small, sighing alarm for her, which Emily disregarded completely. “Anyway, he is making a complete ass of himself in Gibraltar, and I’d rather nothing to do with him at the moment. Or ever,” she added scowling. Laurence was at once enlightened as to Emily’s unexpected willingness to cast herself into the arms of society, and all the more doubtful on the wisdom of doing so, but it had all been already decided. There was to be a ball at the manor in two weeks’ time.

 

* * *

 

 

He had been assured, and assured again, that there was nothing that was necessary for him to do in the preparations; Laurence was irritated therefore to find himself in the same room as Lady Alice Brenlow and her gawkish daughter.

 

"How very kind of you to receive us," cooed Lady Brenlow; the words were directed at Lady Allendale, but she was looking very forwardly at Laurence himself. Her daughter looked down at the floor. Laurence allowed his mother to respond, correctly, and contributed to the conversation only as reservedly as he could bring himself to, conscious as he was of Emily’s presence, and his duty to model proper conversation for her. He would have felt this obligation even more strongly if Emily were not looking at him, and then at Lady Brenlow, with an expression that could only be considered a smirk. Lady Brenlow paused, and said,

 

“We have not met since we had the honor to see you in London; I trust your business went well? I do hope that you shall visit us again.”

 

A very likely turn of phrase, as if Laurence had made a social call on them willingly, rather than being dropped at their door like a tolerable turkey. He said something polite, however, and let the conversation lapse.

 

Lady Brenlow seemed on the verge of speaking again when her daughter unexpectedly took her eyes off the floor.

 

“Sir William,” she began, in nearly a whisper. “Do you—do you perhaps happen to know—” She had, Laurence was astonished to see, turned a deep shade of scarlet. “I had a friend, who had gone into the Corps, Charlotte Greenbriar, perhaps you are acquainted...?”

 

“Margaret!” Lady Brenlow sat up straight in her chair, the picture of astonishment. “I am sure Sir William has no notion of your former friend. I am very surprised at you asking.”

 

“Indeed, I confess I have never heard of her,” said Laurence, sorry to have to say so; he would have liked to reward her courage for speaking up. “I have spent far too little time with the officers of my former service since my return to England; may I say, Miss Brenlow, that I have every expectation that any acquaintance of yours is sure to be a fine officer.”

 

Margaret colored more deeply, if that was possible, and sunk back into her chair.

 

“I know her,” said Emily. They all turned to look at her, very surprised; Emily however was inspecting Margaret closely. "She's midwingman on a Xenica; we met at Dover. But how do _you_ know her?"

 

Margaret muttered something below human hearing.

 

"But Margaret has no contact with her anymore," said Lady Brenlow, overloud. "Isn't that right?"

 

Margaret agreed, very softly, that it was so. Emily turned a hot eye on Lady Brenlow.

 

“And what is wrong with keeping contact with aviators?” she demanded. Her eye flicked toward Laurence and back again. “Or maybe it’s just the female ones you dislike?”

 

“Emily,” interjected Lady Allendale, “I am sure Lady Brenlow means nothing of the kind. Alice and I share nothing but the highest admiration for those of our sex who so valiantly serve in uniform.”

 

“Indeed!” said Lady Brenlow emphatically, having recovered from her shock. “Indeed, Lady Allendale, quite right. You know my opinion exactly.”

 

“I have no doubt at all that Miss Greenbriar is simply too busy with her duties to write,” Lady Allendale continued sedately. “And that when she has settled in with her new service, her letters will be received happily.”

 

Laurence looked down into his tea, as Lady Brenlow stammered out a reply, and reflected that Sir Alfred Brenlow ought to have married a woman who understood politics.

 

“I know that my Margaret has a strong feeling to see the dragons,” ventured Lady Brenlow, after a moment, “if only she could be sent with one who has a head for them; I know Margaret has not much head for situations where things are new to her, and she has never met a dragon before.”

 

This was a tolerable hint, and one that Lady Allendale did not choose to ignore.

 

"Emily, dear, perhaps you will bring Miss Brenlow to meet the dragons?

 

Emily dear was only too glad to be gone; she jumped up to her feet and nodded imperiously to Miss Brenlow, hardly even waiting for her to get up and follow before she strode out of the room. The door had barely swung closed behind the girls before Lady Brenlow leaned forward.

 

“Lady Allendale, Sir William,” she said, in a theatrically lowered voice. “May I unburden myself to you?” Hardly pausing for Lady Allendale’s surprised assent, she went on. “My daughter—my dear, my only daughter—has gone six full seasons in society without a single proposal, without a hint of one. I must flatter myself that she has my looks—” here she paused for a compliment, which Lady Allendale politely provided— “and I myself had been a wife by my second season, or perhaps my third! It is quite extraordinary.”

 

“Two and twenty is young yet to be a wife. She seems to me, if you will excuse the speculation, to be only cautious of her prospects, and wish to be happy before rushing into matrimony; it is no bad thing in a girl of her age.”

 

“Oh! You shock me, Lady Allendale. I see no reason why she should be wiser as an old maid than as a girl; I am sure that I had no worse idea of my prospects at nineteen than at twenty-seven, which was not so long ago you know. It is a woman’s duty, in _my_ opinion, to be happy in matrimony after it has taken place, and not before. But in this case, perhaps there is hope along this road, for since this dreadful war has been brought to a close, all of our brave men have come home, and my Margaret says she will have no one but an aviator.”

 

This was said with too obvious a glance at Laurence to be considered polite, and to this Lady Allendale gave only a chilly smile in reply. Laurence made no answer at all. Last night he had dreamt of the invasion, of Wollaton village with its church on fire and Tenzing looking him sidelong and saying _Laurence, what are you doing?_ It had made him irritable.

 

There were no letters waiting for him when the visit limped finally to a close, nor were there any new arrivals at the gate. Laurence walked through the halls, restless. Much as he had longed for Lady Brenlow’s interminable visit to end, he found little enough to occupy himself. Temeraire had been called to Parliament, and his mother was secluded somewhere with Emily. He made an attempt to sit down at his letters, but his mind was a blank; he had sent letters already after Tenzing, and all his other correspondence was current. He settled, eventually, for a solitary walk around the grounds, and so he was first to note Temeraire's arrival as he soared down onto the grass.

 

“I did not expect you so early,” said Laurence, walking towards him. “Your business in Parliament went well, I trust?”

 

“Oh! More than well, I daresay. We have more allies than _some_ would have us think. It is all going smoothly, Laurence—politics is not so very difficult as I have been warned.”

 

“I am glad that you are so encouraged by your progress,” said Laurence, reserving his doubts; by now, surely, Temeraire knew more of laws and their making than he himself did, and Lady Allendale would be a far more suitable counselor in any case.

 

“Yes, I think we have done well enough. Of course, no one’s mind could really fail to be changed after hearing all of our arguments. Why, when you consider—”

 

As they walked into the pavilion Laurence listened to Temeraire’s explanation of their latest proposal with only half an ear. It seemed hardly likely to pass, despite Temeraire’s optimism; he only hoped that his eventual disappointment would not be too harsh.

 

He stayed in the pavilion that night to sleep, the candles blown out and his hand still resting upon the open page of their current novel, something concerning matters of love and marriage; written for young women, no doubt. Temeraire, whom he knew to be indifferent to marriage at best, had nonetheless taken a passionate interest in the happenings of the book and kept them both up long into the night, wanting to read on. Laurence had only half paid attention to the words he was reading, remembering to pause every now and again to see if Temeraire, whose eyes had long since closed, would sleepily murmur for him to continue. At last he heard nothing but the faint wheezing beginnings of a snore. Laurence laid one hand on the smooth black side and smiled. Politics had not taken away Temeraire’s ability to sleep soundly at night; he had worried, on that count.

 

Whether he could say the same for himself was, at present, harder to say.

 

Laurence was not accustomed to being unable to sleep; he had been a sailor and an aviator, and had been to war all his life. He had learned long ago to take his rest when it was offered to him. Yet with all the will in the world, sleep eluded him. His thoughts wheeled about in his head, turning and turning like the key of a wind-up soldier and going nowhere.

 

He threw aside the blankets at last, disgusted with himself, and edged quietly around Temeraire’s sleeping bulk. He would—he would go for a walk outside, or light a lamp and read from a newspaper—he had read all of them already, but perhaps there would be something new—or he would—he would—

 

There was no one he could wake, or would choose to wake, and in any case he ought to be used to having little company from lonely nights at sea. But there was always, then, the thought of doing service to crown and country to offer him solace; a comfort he had not had for some years now. He did not love society as he once did, and the thought of a meaningless game of whist or a night at the opera disgusted him more that it ought to have. He had been spoiled, perhaps, by having all of Temeraire's time and attention so immediately at his disposal; now Laurence rather felt as if he had been set afloat.

 

Abruptly he felt ashamed of himself. Temeraire had never been so resentful, he was sure, as if the bond between them was a chain, or the rise of one of them in society should perforce mean the neglect of the other. He _ought_ to walk outside, he concluded; perhaps the night air would blow these absurd thoughts out of his head. Thus determined, he switched direction, turned the corner, and ran into Tharkay,

 

Laurence stared, putting out a hand to steady himself. His mind was a blank.

 

Tharkay had paused as well, taking a careful step backwards.

 

“I see that I outsped the word I sent of my return,” he said, after a moment. “I am surprised; I made sure that all of you would be asleep at this hour of night."

 

"No," said Laurence. Perhaps he had come closer to sleep than he had imagined, for his head was unaccountably clouded, and his mouth did not seem to want to speak, suddenly turning dry. "May I assume, then, that the—the business that called you away is all settled?"

 

Tharkay paused, looking him over, and then twisting his lips into something approximating a smile said, "What you mean to ask, I think, is why I went away without so much as a note, only leaving word with Temeraire; I do not mind answering, but it is a long and tired story, and I will do it more justice after some hours sleep. Would you permit me to excuse myself to you, tomorrow?”

 

Laurence could not pretend that this explanation was not exactly what he had sought, but Tharkay's mention of _tomorrow_ had jarred loose a reminder that he might have rather forgotten.

 

"There is—there is to be a ball tomorrow night," he said.

 

"Is there? Tenzing did not seem surprised. "Temeraire has indeed been busy, then."

 

"Yes," said Laurence, and then, "Will I see you there?"

 

A wry smile flicked over Tenzing’s face. "I am a guest in this house," he said. "I should be surprised not to receive an invitation."

 

"Oh—yes."

 

They stared at each other, Laurence in his sleeping-shirt and Tenzing still dusty from the road. The smile slowly slipped off his face.

 

"Yes," he said quietly. "You will see me there."

 

* * *

 

 

“I do not see why _you_ had to be here,” said Temeraire ungraciously. Iskierka curled more comfortably in the central pavilion and yawned steam.

 

“Well, _I_ was told there was going to be a ball, which I have never been to before. I have brought all of my best jewelry, so you needn’t worry; I can lend you anything that you do not have.”

 

Temeraire’s ruff spread all the way out. “I am sure there is nothing you have that I need,” he said very stiffly, and then added, “and it was _Granby_ that was invited, not you.”

 

“I do not see why I would not be welcome, then, as Granby is my admiral and I am so very rich. But,” she added, with a smug air, “You do not have to be jealous. There is room here for all of us.”

 

This was hard to deny. The pavilion in the center of the manor was far more spacious than the one Laurence had built for him in the old quarantine grounds, warm and well-appointed throughout, which was lucky, as it was to serve as the ballroom. Through the windows he could see yet another dragon landing on the grounds; Churki had arrived with Hammond.

 

“I am pleased to see you, sir,” called Laurence, striding across the green with Granby and Tenzing. “I trust you do well?”

 

“As well as could be, I suppose,” muttered Hammond, disgruntled, just as Churki swept around her feathered head and said, in an equally aggrieved tone:

 

“How the fields will do without us, I am sure I do not know, but I am assured that the season in London is the place for getting wives. I suppose it is worth the trip, if only Hammond will marry someone suitable—and there is no reason not to, is there?” she added, in dangerous tones, to Hammond, who stammered out a reply.

 

Granby was wearing a very ill-disguised smirk, and so Laurence took it upon himself to change the topic. This, Hammond was only too happy to allow, and the conversation fell to his upcoming departure for China.

 

“I’ll be off as soon as the gentlemen of the Foreign Office are finished assigning my embassy—oh yes, I will be travelling with a proper staff this time—but I will have to make ready for the flight at any time. That is—” He cast a harried glance up at Churki. "But of course I do not truly expect the orders to come so soon. I beg you to consider my social schedule entirely free to you and your company."

 

Later, situated safely away from Churki in the small parlor room, he was more frank.

 

"How she expects me to find a woman who will consent to marry within the week and then be packed off to China, I have not the least idea," he said, draining his tea and looking as though he rather wished it were brandy. "Likely she will have me propose to the first woman that will dance with me tonight, whether she be entirely respectable or no."

 

"A very dreadful prospect," said Granby, cheerfully. "More tea?"

 

 Laurence had been surprised, though glad, to see Granby's invitation had been accepted; Edinburgh was more than a full days’ flight from London. The journey must have been tiring, for he and Iskierka had passed the night in the London covert rather than continue the scant few miles to the manor, but Granby had waved off his apologies.

 

"I don’t mean to say it’s a flight around the park, but she isn’t exactly transporting three cannon and a platoon to a battlefield, and then having to fight again at the end of it. A nice hard flight, now and then, will be good for Iskierka, especially now that there’s nothing but to laze about.”

 

“I can only imagine how well the habits of peacetime have recommended themselves to her,” said Tharkay dryly, to which Granby only snorted.

 

“I don’t believe she understands the meaning the word, ‘peace’; as far as she knows, and as far as I’ve contrived to persuade her, it is when she can show away all her prizes won during wartime. Another reason it was no hardship to come,” he continued, to Laurence, “I may as well fill her social calendar, and see whether she likes it as much as chasing French ships.”

 

"Temeraire would be happy to oblige her, I am sure," said Laurence, although at the moment the rising noise of some dispute between them was filtering in through the walls.

 

"I think your danger, Admiral," said Tharkay, an amused cast to his expression, "would rather be that she enjoys the pleasures of society too much, and follows Temeraire's example by going into politics." This possibility had clearly not occurred to Granby before; he turned pale, and was gravely quiet for nearly the rest of the afternoon.

 

His spirits began to rise as the light dimmed outside the window; Lily's formation was coming to land on the wide grassy lawn, and Temeraire was calling out welcome.

 

"Oh, it's _you_ again," said Iskierka, rudely, to Immortalis, and turned her head away; Temeraire could not even imagine how she might have formed a dislike. But neither Granby nor Immortalis seemed very surprised, and it would be just like her to quarrel with one as perfectly respectable and kindly as Immortalis, who merely nodded graciously at her.

 

Determined to model better behavior, Temeraire invited the formation into the pavilion at once and had the servants bring about pots of tea and plates of sweetbreads. With the formation and Churki and Iskierka all laying down together and chatting, and their captains and Hammond making a smaller circle within their larger one, it felt almost as if they were all together again in China, or in Brazil, only this time they were not dirty and ragged from long sea-voyages, or being chased by all sorts of unfriendly dragons; in fact they were sitting quite comfortably within the pavilion that he, Temeraire, had built with his own money. The thought filled him with a pleasure that even having Iskierka there could not diminish.

 

The dragons of the formation had all of them news from the coast, none of it very interesting. “Although some of the French are very reasonable for coming over for a chat, if any of them have any English,” said Lily. “This is very good,” she added, licking up the last of her plate of ris de veau. “Will you have your cook give mine the recipe?”

 

“Even if they don’t have English, you only have me translate,” piped in Nitidus, rustling his wings on his back. “But yes, they are good fellows, or mostly, even if they get tetchy if one happens to bring up the war.”

 

“I don’t see why,” said Maximus, rousing a little; he had come down with a slight cold, which had immediately drawn the most concerned attentions of every surgeon in the covert, the dragon-plague still fresh in their minds. Out of an over-abundance of caution he had been dosed with some of the mushroom-cure the night before, and was still inclined to be drowsy. Temeraire wondered wistfully if perhaps _he_ could contrive to get sick, and be dosed similarly; the mushrooms had been so very tasty. “I don’t see why,” continued Maximus, “as we have won fair and square, anyone can tell you, and have left them enough of their treasure to satisfy anybody. But then, I do not see why they should have fought us in the first place.”

 

“I suppose it was something to do with this Napoleon,” said Lily doubtfully. “But I should rather be friends with them than go to war.”

 

“Of course we should go to war with them,” disagreed Iskierka, with a snort. “How else are we to get prizes, and be rich?”

 

“You are being very dimwitted,” said Temeraire severely. “There is no reason why war has to be more profitable than peace; have you not paid any attention at all to John Wampanoag? My own funds are mainly collecting interest at the moment, as I am far too busy to attend much to them, but I certainly own shares in several London businesses; and some of Perscitia’s inventions, which I have provided seed money for, are coming along quite well. And none of that," he added emphatically, in case she should lose the central point, "would be nearly so profitable if all the men were away in the war."

 

Iskierka rather looked as if she would have liked to respond to this, but Lily immediately chimed in, saying, “Oh, I have put my money into land, myself. I have been buying up some estates near Deal; not very much of it, you know, but my tenants pay rent to me now, and it will be nice to have somewhere to put up a pavilion of my own.”

 

And to this the others were shortly chiming in; Maximus had professed that he liked nothing more complicated than simple accumulating interest on his bank-roll, while Nitidus and Dulcia together had bought into some businesses near Dover, and Messoria was investing into the business her second hatchling had founded, having looked into the accounting-books and found it perfectly profitable. Iskierka looked more badly staggered with each revelation. To Temeraire’s satisfaction, Immortalis finished the whole, saying quite placidly that “as for me, I have put some of my money into shipping ventures; it is a risky business, to be sure, but if a ship makes it to port and back a fellow may be sure of a tenfold return on investment.”

 

Iskierka flinched quite visibly at “tenfold”, and Temeraire, who knew perfectly well that Iskierka preferred to keep her wealth in great piles of gold coin which she could show away to visitors, asked with false innocence what rate of interest Iskierka was accumulating, or perhaps she had found a business near Edinburgh to invest in?

 

For a moment Temeraire thought that she would have no answer, but with a great visible effort she managed to cast off her shock and drew herself up with all her spines jetting off at once.

 

"As if I could give a fig for such things, and this business of giving someone else all your money is perfectly stupid, when anyone could see that they will only buy themselves jewels with it; this _return on investment_ business is all nonsense, if you ask me. And anyway I am still richer than you,” this last a brazen falsehood.

 

"You are all being very wrongheaded," said Churki sternly. Iskierka looked up at her at this unexpected support, but Churki only fixed her with as much censure as anyone else and went on, saying, "Money is all well and good, but only so far as it allows you to take care of people; that is where real value is. Money is only some arbitrary agreed-upon number given to gold, which could change at any moment. Why, tomorrow we could all agree that gold is worth nothing at all, and then where would you be? But of people there is only one each, and therefore their value is limitless."

 

Iskierka seemed more disturbed by this speech than all the rest; she was for once truly without a reply, and coiled herself away from the others, resting the splendid golden torque around her neck against the many jangling gold bands around her wrists, apparently just to listen to the reassuring noise of gold clanking upon gold.

 

* * *

 

 

"I am closer to home, I suppose, at Edinburgh," said Granby, in response to Laurence's inquiry. "Of course, I would not take Iskierka flying over Newcastle-upon-Tyne for anything; I suppose one sneeze from her and the entire town should catch fire."

 

"I would be careful," said Iskierka, indignant, overhearing this. She had drawn away from the other dragons following some argument, and had been resting a possessive gaze on Granby. Now she snaked her head forward to fix him with a reproachful eye from over Little's head, they being seated too close together for her to push in between them. "I should like to meet your family, and I daresay they would be happy to meet me, too, as soon as I have found someone to give me directions to this Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which I have never heard of before."

 

"That's for a reason, you mad reptile," said Granby in exasperation. "It is a coal town; I can promise that my family would not be happy to meet you in the slightest if you have sent the city up in flames."

 

"Then they shall have to come to us, if their city is so very fragile that I cannot even fly over it. How soon can they be in Edinburgh?"

 

Laurence glanced at the clock, while Granby sputtered out a reply. The guests should be arriving soon, and Emily was still nowhere to be seen. Laurence excused himself, quietly, to slip upstairs.

 

He did not have to search very hard for Emily. He would have looked first in Lady Allendale's rooms in any case, but the sound of her raised voice was better than breadcrumbs. Her words were perfectly audible before he had even come around the hallway.

 

 “It is all a hum,” Emily was saying passionately. “Why ever should I put on skirts and make nice to girls who have never been on a battlefield, or are witless at the sight of a dragon, and want nothing more than to marry well and have babies? I can’t sew or arrange flowers, what else do I have to talk about with them about?”

 

Laurence slowed, feeling awkward. He did not mean to be an eavesdropper in his own house, but the door was open, and he did not particularly think that Emily cared to protect her privacy at the moment; she was not shouting, precisely, but certainly her voice was as forceful as that of any officer used to communicating above the tearing wind of a dragon's flight.

 

“What do you talk about with me, then?” asked Lady Allendale reasonably, and Emily seemed to flounder.

 

“Well—you’re different, and you get on with Mother—”

 

“I can assure you that every girl present will have nothing but the greatest admiration for Admiral Roland,” said Lady Allendale, “and as for a fear of dragons, you must allow me to remind you that Temeraire is himself hosting.” She paused, then, and Laurence thought that perhaps she was marshalling another gentle argument, and then Emily said, urgently— “God! I will bring you some water.” Laurence coming through the door—hurrying, sprinting, his ears filled with an unidentifiable buzzing, found Lady Allendale sitting in her chair very pale, with a hand pressed to her heart. Laurence went at once to her side, while Emily clad only in her shift, brought over the entire ewer from the other table.

 

“I am quite alright,” said Lady Allendale, after a moment. She took one steady sip of the water that an anxious Emily held out to her, and then another. “Truly,” she said, smiling at the look on Laurence’s face. “It was only a start.”

 

"I am very sorry for yelling," said Emily, in a small voice. Laurence shot her a quick glance, much surprised; he did not suppose he had heard her sound so meek since the summer she had turned eleven.

 

"You did not give me a fright, my dear, pray have no worries on that account," said Lady Allendale, patting Emily's hand. "In any case, you could hardly do worse than the shouting matches William used to get into with his father. If a little volume could do me any injury, I suppose I would have taken to my bed permanently the year he ran away into the Navy." Smiling a little at the memory, she took another sip of water.

 

Laurence was too full of relief to mind her exposing his childhood in such a way. "But perhaps you should get some rest," he said, still inclined to be anxious. "I assure you that Temeraire will have everything well in hand."

 

"As will I," said Lady Allendale firmly, and after a couple more attempts had found her equally unmovable, Laurence gave it up and reluctantly helped her to stand. No sooner had he done so, however, than he had found himself gently sent away. “But do send in the maid, as we must see about Emily’s gown—” and Emily and Laurence found themselves staring at each other through the closing door, equally powerless to protest against Lady Allendale’s wishes.

 

Emily came out, eventually, sullen in a shimmering lutestring evening gown and with her hair pinned up elegantly, and growing even more so when Laurence bowed to her.

 

“Are you mocking me?” she demanded.

 

“Not at all,” said Laurence, sorry that she should think so, and bit back the compliments that he should ordinarily have considered it his place to offer to a young debutante; he did not think they would be well-received. “Shall we go downstairs?”

 

He could not restrain himself from offering Emily his arm, which she angrily refused, and charged down the steps clutching fistfuls of her beautiful dress to keep from tripping.

 

She seemed startled, at the bottom of the stairs, to find that Captain Harcourt had already changed into a fine dress of silver muslin, which Lily was rather aglow over, and with only the bottle green sash running across her chest from shoulder to hip, heavy with medals, to mark her as an officer.

 

"Oh," she said doubtfully. Laurence could hardly blame her for her reaction, particularly when he had taken a glance over the dragons, who had taken a moment to put on all their jewels. Temeraire was particularly ostentatious, having contrived to cover his ruff and half his forehead with an elaborate net comprised of thin silver chains, delicate as lacework, and covered in seed pearls. Larger pearls dangled down around his neck and shoulders, giving him the look of some sea creature dripping in sea-foam; not unhandsome, but wholly astonishing. There was besides this his old platinum and pearl breastplate, newly buffed and polished, his beloved talon sheaths, and something new; fitted bands of platinum ran up the first third of his tail, bright with embedded sapphires and moonstones, so that indeed from tip to tail there was not a part of him that was not covered in jewels, save for his wings, which he had not yet contrived to get pierced.

 

The other dragons were all very admiring, although they were hardly plainly dressed themselves; Iskierka in particular was not far behind Temeraire in ostentation, the golden torque and the bands around her forearms set with rubies, and more gems dangling from her curving horns rather like a lady's earrings, while Lily had contented herself with a chain of fire opals, set in gold, a matched set with the necklace Harcourt herself wore. The profusion of talon-rings, head-dresses, jeweled chains, and spangling meshes had fairly set the pavilion to glittering, and the dragons were delighted to compliment themselves and each other on their taste. Of the young dragons only Maximus had restrained himself, with only a golden collar and no jewels; indeed it was difficult to think of the jewel large enough to look to advantage against his massive bulk. Still he sighed, although his general good nature kept him from being too covetous of his wingmates. Berkeley only shook his head.

 

"Damned useless vanity," he said, and added in an undertone to Laurence, "spends all his money on beef, and cannot afford himself any jewels; but will mope about it nonetheless, the glutton."

 

Nevertheless they were a sight fit for any court in Europe, and the guests certainly murmured and stared as they came in. Their interest was returned in full measure by the dragons, who had not had much exposure to society before. Churki in particular was full of approval, eagerly pointing out particularly beautiful young ladies for Hammond's benefit, and speculating quite audibly on their fertility.

 

"Oh!" she said suddenly. " _Her_ , Hammond; what a lovely wife she would make!"

 

Laurence had himself been watching Lady Allendale for any sign that she should feel less than perfectly well, but he did not have to search far to see the young lady in question. Across the ballroom, heads were turning, their direction unerringly marking the progress of a particularly striking woman.

 

“Of course, I shall be just as happy with any other wife,” said Churki, as if she had regretted her earlier enthusiasm. “As long as she is young, and as long as _you_ don’t have any objection to her…” And then she trailed off, her feathers all ruffled up with excitement; the woman was coming towards them.

 

She was indeed lovely, with dark hair pinned up beneath her silk turban and grey eyes half-hooded by a thick layer of lashes, giving her a perpetual expression of private amusement. There was an air of decision to her stride that presented a striking contrast with the girl she was arm-in-arm with, who took two quick mincing steps for every one of hers, and who Laurence was startled to recognize as Margaret Brenlow.

 

They closed upon Hammond and the nearby knot of aviators with a speed approximating that of a prime frigate cutting out a fat prize, and Laurence, much startled, found himself returning a bow to their curtsies before he had quite realized what had happened. Laurence was alarmed further to note that they were neither of them accompanied by chaperones, something that seemed to weigh on Margaret only a little, and not at all upon her smiling companion, who was introduced to him as a Miss Diana Hope.

 

He could not ask, of course, why they had been allowed to roam the ballroom so unaccompanied. In any case he rather thought that Margaret at least was happier to have escaped her mother; she still did not push herself forward in conversation very much, and by comparison to her friend, her own beauty—by no means insubstantial—seemed pale and faded. But she held herself straighter, and was able to meet Laurence's eyes once or perhaps even twice. Aside from a few token remarks during the introductions, she said very little, and seemed far happier to let Miss Hope take the reins—which she did with enthusiasm.

 

In short order all the aviators had been cheerfully and charmingly interrogated on their travels, their dragons, their rank, and their stations. Laurence would have suspected a fortune-hunter or glory-hound, except that she seemed to have no interest whatsoever in battles won or prizes taken; she professed very little interest in Wellington, although it was currently the height of fashion for young ladies to believe themselves in love with him, and she had no other opinion to give on the end of the war with France than to express relief that French silks would no longer have to be smuggled.

 

"I suppose you have had to muddle through a great many campaigns, full of all that horror and dullness; my condolences," she said, having just listened politely to one of Chenery's multitude of anecdotes. "War is almost too tedious to think of. I can really have no respect for any man so hungry for blood that he cannot be satisfied with a foxhunt, but must also try to hunt nations. The news for the last decade was nothing but the doings of these men; how pleasant it is to no longer have to hear such things!"

 

Laurence said a little dubiously, "You are speaking of Napoleon, Miss Hope?" He was not used to discussing the topic with young ladies in such a way; horror and dullness were indeed the words he would have chosen to describe the war, horror and dullness and politics, but he did not expect them to come out of the mouth of a society girl, even one no longer in her first season.

 

"He is one of them among many, but only the most prominent. I firmly believe half the men in the world or more would be Napoleons if they could, and the other half only wait for one to appear so they can serve him."

 

"I see you have summed up our gender tolerably well," said Laurence, beginning to be amused; there was something in the expression of her eyes and lips that suggested at playfulness. "Shall I assume that you have excepted your own from this stricture, or at least yourself?"

 

"I aim for something greater," said Miss Hope, laughingly. "Napoleon may have once been the envy of all the world, but there is no one now who would prefer to be an emperor of exiles than a queen of Paris. Or a captain in Dover, of course," she said, turning back to Chenery; "do tell me, how is the society there? I regret to say I have never been."

 

"Yes," said Margaret eagerly. “Are there many dragons, or is it just your formation and the other?”

 

“No, there are still three formations,” said Lily, ducking into the conversation from high above. “Excidium, and mine, and then also Mort—that is, Mortiferus—his old wingmates are still in residence, although he’s himself retired now to the breeding grounds.”

 

“The rest of his formation will be going away soon enough, though,” said Harcourt. “I hear they might be reassigned wholesale to you, John, as Iskierka already knows Longwing manuevers.”

 

“Well, I can’t say I argue with the logic that would assign seasoned old campaigners with Iskierka,” said Granby ruefully, “I only hope they won’t send me off to Halifax direct I have them.”

 

“Halifax?” The two girls had exclaimed it in unison, dismay very evident in their tone. “Are you certain, Halifax?” asked Margaret urgently.

 

“I was only joking,” said Granby hastily, looking more than a little surprised by the reaction. “I’ve no reason to suspect they won’t keep me at Edinburgh.”

 

“Edinburgh,” repeated Margaret, with nearly as much dismay. “But Scotland is weeks away.”

 

“Not on dragonback,” said Miss Hope, a thoughtful look in her eye, which flicked down almost imperceptibly to glance at Granby’s bare ring finger. Laurence frowned; he had finely honed his sense for this aspect of society through a lifetime of exposure to it, but Granby could have had no such experience. Of course a girl might not be able to finesse Granby into marriage in the usual manner, but nonetheless Laurence did not intend to let him be subjected to any attempts, insulting and unwelcome as they must be. Before Laurence could decide on a pretext for intervention, however, Miss Hope had herself caught his eye.

 

She was smiling at him again, but in quite a different manner; he could not help the sudden impression that she had sensed the exact direction of his thoughts and was amused by them.

 

“This is a very fine house,” said Miss Hope suddenly. “It is my understanding that you also have a residence in the Imperial City, in China; how does it compare to this one?”

 

“I confess I have spent very little time there,” said Laurence, with an anxious glance over at Granby; Margaret, very pale but with a determined mien, had engaged him in conversation. The tableau could charitably be described as awkward. Granby was answering her in a rather puzzled manner, looking up at Little as if for advice, or intercession, and looking offended when that man instead politely covered his mouth to laugh.

 

"Do you have no plans to return?" pressed Miss Hope. She clearly meant to give Margaret an open field, but Granby did not seem to be in any danger, at least.

 

"Not at present," replied Laurence, bringing his attention back towards her. "I doubt we shall go again for a few years at least."

 

He was surprised to be met with her genuine cries of protest; he had thought the question merely a formal one.

 

"But you must have seen so much of the wonders of the orient," said Miss Hope. "Not only the way they treat their dragons, which you have been so good as to bring back to us, but also the general advancement of their society, and the refinement of their silks and porcelains and every other aspect of art and virtue; how can you consider not returning?"

 

Laurence, whose own experience in China had consisted largely of fear, anxiety, and a great many attempts on his life, could not find himself swayed by this speech, but her passion was obviously very great.

 

"Temeraire has duties that keep him here, at least for the time being," he answered, and then Churki, who had been hanging on to Miss Hope's every word, interrupted with praise.

 

"What excellent taste you have, and in someone so young, too! You are perfectly correct that China is more than worthy of a visit. There are some very ill-managed countries in this part of the world, but you may be sure that China is not one of them; Hammond and I are ourselves going very soon, and to stay. Hammond, will you not tell Miss Hope more about China?” And that beleaguered gentleman found himself pushed forward, much against his will, by the blunt inexorable edge of a talon.

 

Miss Hope hesitated a moment, her eyes flickering between Laurence and Hammond, but she rallied admirably, and as only a brief round of questioning had sufficed to inform her that this was the British ambassador plenipotentiary to China, and indeed bound directly from London to Peking, she promptly abandoned Laurence to put all the relentless weight of her attention on Hammond, who looked unsettled.

 

Laurence would have been ordinarily delighted by this, but Miss Hope had played her delaying game well. Granby, still looking puzzled, was leading Margaret to a place in the line while Little looked serenely on. A dozen chaperones meanwhile had spotted that the field had cleared, and to his dread Laurence even recognized several of them, so that they would be able introduce their daughters to him without contrivance; there was a general movement in his direction.

 

“I hope I have not arrived too late,” said a low, amused voice in his ear. “You seem in some distress; may I offer you my assistance?” Laurence turned gratefully to find Tharkay standing at his shoulder.

 

“You are more welcome than I think you have ever been,” said Laurence, and then turning quickly to the first society lady who approached said, “Mrs. Hembroke, I am delighted to see you again. Have you ever had the pleasure to meet Mr. Tharkay?”

 

“I do not believe we have met, Madam,” said Tharkay, on cue, and bowed. “And this, of course, is your daughter…?”

 

Mrs. Hembroke, taking in the Oriental features and teakwood-dark skin of the man regarding her, turned pale, backing away. Laurence did not imagine that she would contemplate marrying off her daughter to a man born of a Nepalese mother any more than she would approve her marriage to a tradesman; he did not think she had even seen the fine cut of his coat, or the expensive leather of his shoes. Tharkay watched her escape, mumbling feeble excuses, with something like amusement.

 

“We will not be bothered, I think,” he said to Laurence. “Would you care for a turn about the room?”

 

This, Laurence gratefully accepted, and they slipped behind the massive bulks of the dragons, and walked in the shadows they cast; no one would search for them there.

 

Laurence knew, of course, that he was once more a marriageable man, and a hero, for whatever worth that had. He had even supposed that he could be considered desirable, to a certain extent, as suitable material for fortune-hunters or women past their first bloom of youth and growing desperate, or for those mothers with as little sense as Lady Brenlow. But then, perhaps—he endeavored to convince himself—the women of sense were surely at home tonight, or at least, an outsized share of those women who could receive the attentions of a traitor were present at this ball.

 

"I must admire your determination not to think well of yourself, but I cannot think that likely," said Tharkay; they were speaking in Chinese, to better protect their privacy. “If the gossip of servants has any veracity, as it generally always does, London society has rather fought each other to pieces for an invitation for tonight. I assume many dejected ladies are sitting at home tonight, weeping over their miniatures of your portrait.”

 

Laurence smiled at this absurd fantasy, bemused to find Tharkay indulging so much in his imagination. But still he could not stomach the situation for long. The idea that, when the choice had been bluntly put before society, that a traitor should be sought after and elevated in preference to a man who had given dangerous and steadfast service to Britain, and whose only crime was to be guilty of foreign birth, was distasteful in the extreme. To this Tharkay only gave the odd bark that passed as his laughter.

 

“I think they likely find your crime more forgivable than mine; in you it may even add a romantical dash, a piratical air of excitement. A little of the exotic is always alluring, or at least, so I have been told,” he added, casting a jaundiced glance at the many ladies present in their fashionable turbans. “However, too much of it—” Tharkay shrugged. “As a set-piece I would be met with astounding applause; as a person, however, I am inconveniently alive. Do not let it trouble you, as it does not trouble me.”

 

Laurence shook his head, still inclined to be angry, but did not pursue the subject. They walked on a little while, slowly; Laurence was not eager to leave the shadows of the dragons and face society, and Tharkay seemed perfectly happy to keep pace with him. They came to a stop where a narrow gap between Maximus and Immortalis provided them a view of the dancers as they went down the lines together. There was no sign of Granby, but he had apparently at least extricated himself from Margaret, who was sitting down by the side, although more than enough gentlemen were present and unengaged. Miss Hope, however, was being led down the lines by Hammond, who looked rather downcast despite the jealous looks of nearly every young gentleman in the room.

 

But his eye quickly found Emily, and Lady Allendale standing straight-backed beside her. Emily, still inclined to be solicitous, was even forgetting to scowl as often as she had surely meant to, and Lady Allendale showed no signs of her previous weakness.

 

Laurence had dropped a quiet word in her ear, before the evening began, and she had agreed that Emily should plead exhaustion after one or two dances, as blatantly absurd as the claim was. Emily moved with the natural grace of a swordsman, which was to say, she was not a very good dancer. She was crowded with would-be beaux nonetheless, all of them eager to make themselves very well known to the future Duchess Sutherland.

 

He supposed that his mother had it well in hand, but still he could not like having to see Emily have to confront so many interested parties, and he wondered again if he had done wrong by agreeing to allow the ball to begin with. It may have only been his own inclination that encouraged such a thought, of course; he watched the happy dancers step and turn in lockstep, feeling as though he might be watching a foreign masquerade, or a scene through the wrong end of a scope, distorted and strange. The women in their white dresses were like sails unfurling against a choppy sea, and for a moment Laurence saw not a dazzling-lit ballroom but rather a line of battle tacking in unison, and the wheeling flight of dragons overhead, and fire raining down.

 

He found himself shuddering, blinking awake; Tharkay was touching his arm.

 

“I beg your pardon,” Laurence said. “Did you say something? I have quite forgot myself.” He supposed he had been lost in thought, perhaps dreading what the unhappy Emily would have to say after the evening ended, at being presented with such an affair.

 

Tharkay regarded him steadily. Laurence thought he detected some hesitation in him, although his expression betrayed nothing, and then abruptly he said, “I believe I still owe you an explanation.”

 

“Ah,” said Laurence, remembering their conversation from last night. “Tenzing, I cannot deny feeling the liveliest curiosity, not even to mention my concern, but I would not like you to reveal anything you should rather keep hidden.”

 

Tharkay shrugged, in his way, and only gestured Laurence on to an even more private corner. “The only people involved are dead, or too powerful to be concerned. In any case, I have been strictly abjured to say nothing of the matter, and it does not do to follow orders overmuch.”

 

Hesitating only a little, Laurence followed Tharkay into the deepest part of the dragon’s shadows. He could not see very well in the dimness, and walked blindly on, catching out where he thought he heard Tharkay. There was luxuriously fine fabric beneath his hand, and a whisper of warm skin touching the pad of his thumb. He felt curiously attuned to his other senses, perhaps as a reaction to the darkness; the skin of his hand was prickling, and the sound of Tharkay’s breathing was strangely overloud.

 

They halted without a word, waiting together for Laurence’s sight to adjust. The dimness cleared, eventually; Tharkay was surprisingly close, his face not inches from Laurence’s, undoubtedly why his breathing had sounded so loud. In some embarrassment Laurence removed his hand.

 

“I am ready for your tale, sir, if you would still like to tell it,” said Laurence, the only thing he could think to say.

 

“I was at an execution,” said Tharkay, after a pause. “He was a gentleman in the foreign office, who thought his regular supply of information to his French mistress would go unnoticed. I must be fair to the man; no one did, for some improbable length of time. I suppose they might have gone on just as they were, but for my interference.” He shrugged. “By the time the men with the power to act were convinced, however, he had already gone.”

 

“They did not believe you?”

 

“You can guess at the power of my word against that of a respectably established gentleman,” said Tharkay, and Laurence nodded, unsurprised despite himself.

 

“He had gone to ground in Paris,” continued Tharkay. “The story of how I pursued and found him there is hardly interesting enough to be worth the telling, although the board of _gentlemen_ I report to—” the word spoken with a gentle irony— “was inclined to question my methods; I would have thought the small matter of the arson of a salon would hardly weigh with an empire that has set fire to a dozen cities that did not belong to them, for the crime of not belonging to them.”

 

“But Tenzing, this is absurd!” cried Laurence, unable to restrain himself. “You had yourself only briefly escaped capture and worse at French hands. Do you truly mean to say that you pursued a known traitor and spy into their capital? I cannot—” he recovered himself. “I cannot approve of the judgement of your superiors, in this case.”

 

Tharkay merely gave a shrug. “They sent others, who did not come back,” he said bluntly. “And the assets embedded within France herself could not be risked so. In any case, Laurence, I think you do not appreciate how little use it was to them that they knew my face. I assume that some poor local chinamen suffered some harassment for a while, but they never caught more than a whisper of me."

 

“Your skills are formidable, I have no doubt,” said Laurence, still struggling to repress a more violent reply. “Nor do I have any right to tell you to exercise them otherwise. Even so you might have considered the very material value you have, in your person, to the war effort, and taken steps to preserve yourself.”

 

“You are correct that you have not the right to say so,” said Tharkay briskly, and Laurence abruptly felt ashamed of himself without knowing why. “Out of interest of not distressing you further, I shall skip forward to the events of this past week. Anahuerque’s government declined to ransom him, I suppose, after all the good work he did for her husband.”

 

“And so you were there to testify against him,” said Laurence.

 

“I imagine that is what their lordships would have liked, yes,” said Tharkay, in a thoughtful voice. “They were uncommonly displeased when I had to disoblige them.” He caught Laurence’s startled look. “I hope to beg your pardon, but I am not one to seek the death of a man well after it can do any good. My reticence had little effect, in any case. They hanged him not two days later.”

 

“I am sorry to hear it.”

 

“I am not,” said Tharkay, shrugging. “It was a pitiful sight to see him struggle, but better men have been put to death for worse reasons.”

 

Laurence said, slowly, “I believe I am in similar straits, Tenzing, save perhaps that I have a better possibility of preventing needless death.” He told him about Poole and Windle, and the entire sorry mess of it; he even spoke more than he meant to, so that he ended up revealing the desertion of Poole and Windle’s dragons. “I must ask you to keep it to yourself, however,” said Laurence, knowing that he could rely on Tharkay’s discretion.

 

Tharkay indeed gave his word, although with a speaking look that suggested he already knew how likely it was to remain a secret. “As for the rest, I must do you credit. You have picked two souls to save that could hardly have less deserved your intervention, and I believe your martyrdom is complete. I know your conscience to be considerable, however, and I suppose if I do not aid you it will weigh down on you forever.”

 

“I would be grateful for your influence, if you would indeed be so good as to give it,” said Laurence. “But I hope I do not put you in an awkward position, given your own situation.”

 

He waved a hand, dismissing this. “I wonder if _you_ might reconsider, however. I would find it deeply amusing to have this mutinous pair owe me their lives, but it can only be torment for them.”

 

“Better for them to live with their regret, richly deserved as it is, than suffer the finality of death,” said Laurence soberly. Tharkay shook his head but did not argue.

 

They had begun walking again, and were edging now past the shadows cast by the dragons and into the festivities. Laurence was by no means ready to face the tumult of society again, but he felt in powerful need of a drink, and as he handed Tharkay a flute of champagne from the nearest passing servant, he noticed that the hour had grown small. Temeraire had moved by the door, bidding guests goodbye, and Artis and her fellows had been recruited to carry them home, if they were not too drunk or grand to stay on the back of a dragon. The other captains were gathered in a circle, speaking to each other with excitement of the gaiety of the night; as aviators, they had likely been seldom invited into society before this. They of course were staying the night as guests, but everywhere else groups were breaking up, chaperones were searching for wayward charges, gentlemen were taking their last farewells of ladies, and Laurence realized, with more cheerfulness than he would have liked to admit, that he had managed to avoid nearly the entire ball.

 

He struggled a little, feeling he ought to have more guilt at abandoning his duties than he did, but it was impossible to summon much of it as he sipped at the excellent wine.

 

“Emily has survived the night, I see,” Tharkay observed, and she was indeed taking her last leave of several of her admirers, with an expression that suggested that she would rather see them off in a less civilized manner.

 

“More to the point, society has survived _her_ ,” said Laurence, full of relief. He turned towards Tharkay, who met his optimism with a quirking smile. “To her success,” he said, proposing a toast. The light gleamed softly off Tharkay’s dark eyes.

 

“Yes,” he said, “and to yours.”

 

The final guests were trickling away. Laurence caught the sound of Lady Brenlow’s voice, assuring Temeraire that there had never been a ball like this one, and they should surely have to have another, as soon as was possible…she had scarcely caught a glimpse of dear William all night…Laurence smiled to hear Lady Allendale managing her, in a quite professional fashion, out the door. Harcourt yawned, in an unladylike way, saying, “I suppose I should go up to my room, as it will take me forever to get out of this get-up. Lily, will you do for the night?”

 

Lily had drunk nearly an entire bowl of sherry, and was curled quite comfortably on one of Temeraire’s dragon-couches, but she managed to murmur a sleepy reassurance. Maximus was already asleep, and beginning to snore, while Iskierka and Dulcia were engaged in a spirited debate over which of the ladies had worn the most impressive jewelry, which Immortalis and Messoria observed with interest. Their captains made their way upstairs after Harcourt, pausing in their informal way to thank Laurence for the invitation, and Tharkay took his leave as well. Watching them all ascend up the staircase, Laurence was nearly sorry it was over.

 

They had to arrange the dragons around Maximus’ sleeping bulk, but once the servants had cleared away the tables and chairs, there was more than enough room for all, and even more once Iskierka in a huff had gone away to the guest pavilion. Temeraire settled in his own place, although his ruff was still standing up with excitement; his first ball was undoubtedly a success.

 

Laurence went to bid him farewell for the night; with eight drunk and snoring dragons, he thought he would sleep better in his own room. Just past them, Emily walked slowly, reading over a piece of paper in her hands. Temeraire tilted his head.

 

“What is it you have there, Emily?”

 

“Poetry,” she said in tones of great puzzlement. She read further, and added, “It is not very good.”

 

“Well, in the morning you shall read it to me and we shall determine that together. Oh, what a lovely ball! But it is aggravating above all things that Iskierka should have had to come, we would all have had a much better time without her.”

 

“Did you not enjoy yourself?” asked Laurence. “I cannot remember a much pleasanter night.”

 

“You spent all the night with Tharkay, and did not have to speak with such unpleasant people,” said Temeraire reproachfully. “But,” he added, relenting, “you are right that there was a great deal to like in it. We shall have to have another as soon as we can.”


	5. A Public Dispute

A great tumult in the hall caught their attention; Laurence rushing out of the room was just barely able to prevent Emily from landing a punishing blow on a stranger—a _man_ , Laurence noted with alarm, calling on a young lady in his house without permission or chaperonage—dark-haired, and with a rather petulant set to his lips. Ferris, rushing out the sitting room after him, took the man by the shoulders while Laurence bodily interposed himself between him and Emily Roland.

 

She surged furiously forward against the barrier of his arm.

 

“Ass!” she shouted at him, as angry as Laurence had ever seen her. “Coward! Why don’t you face me like a man, you useless caper-merchant?”

 

“As if I would do such a thing,” said the man sneeringly, from behind the safety of Ferris and Laurence. “You’re quite a specimen of a woman, aren’t you? Why be so reticent when you go around in breeches, acting like a man but claiming the honor of a woman—”

 

“Sir, you may leave,” said Laurence sharply. “You have insulted a guest of this house, and may no longer be welcome.”

 

“Oh, a guest indeed,” said the dark-haired visitor, biting-quick from behind Ferris’ arm, “when all the world knows she is your own bastard daughter, gotten on a slattern aviatrix—”

 

Laurence was taking long furious strides across the hall before he was quite aware of it; Ferris took one look at his expression and shoved the man out the hall by main force, closing the front door on him before Laurence could disgrace himself irreparably. Laurence was in no mood to grateful, however, and stopped before the front door still breathing heavily, fighting an ugly urge to wrench open the door and find out how far he could stretch the name of gentleman. Ferris remained by the door, eyeing him as if unsure what he would do.

 

Behind him, Emily made a low hissing noise, rather like an angry cat, and it occurred to Laurence to find out what had happened from her.

 

She was in a cold rage, and not much inclined to relay what had happened, but eventually in bits and pieces Laurence learned to his great alarm that the man had been endeavoring to convince her to elope and, when that had been contemptuously turned down, to steal her virtue. This she had defended with a well-placed blow to the throat—“to shut him up,” she had said angrily—

 

It had not worked, evidentially, as the man then went on to make offensive assumptions about Emily’s virtue, and then to make comments of the most demeaning nature about her mother. Laurence’s hand had already tightened into a white fist by the time she had finished.

 

“Captain Ferris,” he said, mastering himself. “I am sorry that you should have been exposed to such a scene during your visit.”

 

“Oh,” said Ferris, still looking at him warily. “I suppose I don’t mind. Hullo, Roland.”

 

“Captain,” said Emily, still simmering. “Are you also stuck in my boat, then? I’ll be here forever waiting for a Longwing to hatch; oh! Whyever did my mother leave me _here_?” and she glared at Laurence as if it was his fault, which, he supposed, was to some extent true.

 

“No, I’m not; that is, I’m on leave, but—well, the Admiral told me I could have my choice of the French eggs, but I thought I might—that is, I thought I might benefit from a few months off duty.”

 

Emily looked skeptical at this, but Laurence only nodded. Ferris had lately been disappointed in—if not love, then something like it—and he was at an age where such blows were harder to bear.

 

“You are staying with your parents, then, I gather?” he asked, gesturing Emily into the sitting room where they had been having their tea. Emily threw him an astonished look.

 

“I’m not going to sit here making niceties with Ferris,” she said indignantly. “That man insulted my mother.”

 

“Your service forbids dueling,” said Laurence, only to be met by her blank expression. “Oh, I see,” he said, drily despite the barely checked anger in his own chest. “I suppose you were not planning on anything so formal as a duel. The choice between a forbidden course of action and a dishonorable one is no choice at all, if you understand me, Lieutenant.”

 

Sullenly, Emily nodded, and even deigned to follow them into the sitting room, although true to her word, she made absolutely no niceties. Laurence covered her silences out of long-formed habit, and politeness carried him and Ferris through the rest of the visit, awkward though it was. He had tethered off the anger from him, tied it off so that it was no longer inside of him but hovering, impatient and pacing, just outside his body. It would not do to let Emily see it, where it might encourage her.

 

No, he must do things properly. He would finish out this social call with Ferris, see him off with polite conversation, and then he would find the man who had been in his house and demand an apology; if not in words, then in blood.

 

* * *

 

 

“I must beg your pardon for asking something so distasteful to you,” said Laurence, pacing back and forth across the pavilion to let loose some of his restive energy; he could hardly begin to explain the glow of anger that had ignited in his chest. “But something must be done; honor demands it, and this man is not an officer, who might be reprimanded properly, but a gentleman, although he hardly merits the name—who if not taught better will continue in besmirching the honor of young women. Temeraire, I must insist on being the one to call him out. So despicable an insult, to a young woman in my house, under my care, cannot be answered otherwise.”

 

“I am certainly not going to allow you to duel,” said Temeraire indignantly, as hope deflated in Laurence’s chest. It was quickly replaced by dread, as he continued, “but I am not going to allow anyone to insult Roland, either; I will duel him.”

 

He seemed to think this an eminently reasonable solution, and expressed confusion at Laurence’s protests.

 

“But you yourself said that honor demands some action to be taken,” said Temeraire. “Why should it not be taken by me?”

 

“Temeraire, you must see the very great unfairness of the arrangement you propose,” said Laurence, aghast. “The purpose of a duel is to defend honor, but nothing about such an advantage as you have against a man in honorable.”

 

“But Laurence,” said Temeraire, “from what you have told me, it seems that this villain of Roland’s likely tried to seduce her without knowing she was not an ordinary female, against whom _his_ advantage would be as great as mine against him. I have read many books lately,” he added, “and many ladies seem quite unable to help themselves against a man with pretty enough words. They faint and fall over, right away, and are completely helpless to defend themselves. It surprised me when I first read of it, as _I_ have never met such a person, but if this man thought Roland was one of those women, then you must see the crime is quite egregious.”

 

“I must get you some better literature,” said Laurence, silently vowing to rid the house of Radcliffe’s novels. “My dear, I hope you will not allow such fiction to influence your judgement in such a way, or cloud you to how monumentally unjust it would be for you to set yourself against him.”

 

“But it would be just as injust for you to do it!” protested Temeraire, unknowingly causing a twinge of guilt in Laurence’s chest. “ _More_ unjust, since not only are you a soldier when he is not, but it would be unjust to me as well, and I would only kill him, anyway, if you did not. No, you had much better let me kill him straightaway, and skip all the trouble in between.”

 

“Temeraire, no!” said Laurence in even greater alarm. “You must allow the man a chance to apologize; that is the honorable course of action.”

 

But Laurence had mistook the depth of Temeraire’s own anger; he turned to him now with a martial light in his deep blue eye. “If he liked to be protected by honor, he might have been honorable, himself,” said Temeraire. “Roland is part of _my_ crew, and if I understand correctly, he had insulted you and Captain Roland as well. I shall be perfectly honorable. I will give him a chance to apologize, as one must. But if his apology does not satisfy, I shall do as _I_ see fit—and I see no reason why his apology should satisfy.”

 

* * *

 

 

The vehemence of Laurence’s reaction had rather stunned Temeraire. It could not change his mind, of course, but Temeraire very little liked having to refuse Laurence anything. His unhappiness was what caused Temeraire to delay, by way of sending a messenger to Excidium, when he would rather have flown immediately to London and torn the town apart in search of this ruffian. Some two days passed in this fashion, while Laurence, and, to his surprise, Roland attempted to dissuade him. But his reply from Excidium soon arrived, and Temeraire had no more excuses for delay.

 

He happened to mention the matter later that week, as the Parliamentary session was adjourning, to Perscitia; she chewed over it meditatively and said, "Yes, I do see; it is as much as saying that larger  should have to swallow any insult from smaller, since they cannot challenge it. I do not like the idea of duels, myself; a very ridiculous concept! But that is not the same as letting anyone do anything, just because it is unfair to make them stop. Obviously, if an insult _can_ be swallowed, it ought to be, in interest of keeping the peace—”

 

“Oh, but this insult cannot be swallowed, at all,” said Temeraire eagerly, and Perscitia nodded.

 

“I thought not, and if he will not apologize matters cannot be expected to stand. It is a little too much for men to object if we care to fight them under their laws! Why, in some sense it is _less_ unfair than a fight between a larger and smaller dragon, for a man can fire a gun, and even one of those can do a great deal of damage, you know, whereas a smaller dragon is still too large to even hold a gun.”

 

His conscience was thus assuaged, although some of the listening Parliamentarians looked rather pale. Still, none of them protested, and Temeraire went on.

 

"Of course, I did not feel that any course of action that Excidium approved of could be truly wrong," he said. "I wrote him a letter as soon as I understood what had happened, as is my responsibility—although I cringed to admit Roland had been insulted so in my own house! But he was very gracious, and did not blame me. Instead he writes that as soon as his duties allow, he will himself come to London to help in my search. I'm sure no one could fail to tell _him_ where this seedy character is hiding."

 

"He's not going to challenge the man himself, is he?" asked Perscitia doubtfully. "I thought there was some law against it."

 

"Certainly he is!" Temeraire was rather shocked by the question. "The law is only for aviators, which is why Roland cannot defend her honor herself; it says nothing about the dragons."

 

Perscitia did not seem convinced, but she said, "I suppose if anyone does object, they can argue with Excidium himself on the matter," which was exactly how Temeraire felt.

 

He spent the next few hours circling London, taking careful note of the nervous heads that turned up to follow his progress. None of them seemed the match the description Roland had reluctantly given him.

 

Ordinarily Temeraire would never have been so rude as to fly so low over the city, but this _was_ an emergency, he rather felt, and anyway he was a MP and a war hero and deserved some consideration. Any anyway, surely everyone in London could appreciate the removal of a craven snake from their society, so in that light his actions could only be viewed as a mild inconvenience in service of a heroic cause.

 

He turned to sweep over the south, keeping a sharp eye out for his quarry: one of the ferals he had recruited came up to him and reported that he had been seen in Rotten Row, so he went and hovered over the green paths for an hour or so, scattering horses and carriages everywhere; and then another feral had heard the wretched man was in some gambling den on the other end of Hyde Park. He took off at speed, the wind from his wings sending leaves from the trees spiraling down everywhere, but he had barely reached St. James when Artis came up to him, panting, and said that she had overheard a man on the street saying that Temeraire's quarry was likely in the heart of a place called Bedlam.

 

By the time Temeraire had roundly abused Artis for bringing him this useless information, it had begun to grow dark. Even if he came out now, Temeraire wouldn't be able to see him. Regretfully, and many reminders to the ferals to come bring him at once if they received any reports of his presence—credible reports, he said to Artis sternly—he left off the search.

 

Laurence wasn't in the main pavilion by the time he arrived home. Temeraire prowled through the great house, sticking his nose in doorways and alarming servants until he found him, sitting in one of the smaller sitting rooms by the main hall, playing a little chess but mainly talking in low voices with Tharkay. The entrance was inconveniently small, but he managed to fit most of his head in through the door, although not enough to stretch out his ruff as he wanted to. Laurence, obligingly, came over, as Temeraire could not quite reach him without bringing the house down around his shoulders, and patted his nose in greeting.

 

"You are not still angry, are you?" asked Temeraire, not a little anxiously. He tried to squirm forward a little more, but gave it up when the doorway shuddered.                                                                                           

 

“No, my dear, I am not angry,” said Laurence. “But I do hope you have reconsidered.”

 

“Reconsidered! No, not at all,” said Temeraire, offended, and then hastily added, “and I have promised, have I not, that I should consider his apology carefully. There is every chance he may surprise me, Laurence; after he meets me, I imagine he shall be very sorry indeed.”

 

“You are the very spirit of forgiveness,” said Laurence drily, and retreated to hold some quiet conversation with Tharkay, who shortly bowed and took himself out a second entrance.

 

“Shall we have some reading before bed?” asked Laurence. “We were in the second volume of our current novel, I believe.”

 

Relief flooded over Temeraire. “Yes, of course,” he said, retreating from the doorway so fast that some of the plaster fell. “And I shall stay awake this time, as I am quite desperate to know what happens next—you will wake me up, won’t you?”

 

“Only the first time you fall asleep, my dear,” said Laurence, as they walked down to the pavilion where Temeraire slept. “The second and third times, I begin to wonder if my powers as a narrator bore you.”

 

“Oh!” said Temeraire in outrage. “You know it is not that! It is only that one hates to be awake and not reading a book.”

 

Temeraire indeed drifted off shortly following the heroine’s misadventures with the pianoforte, and then again after a description of a long carriage-journey. True to his word, Laurence did not wake him the second time. Temeraire was only dimly aware of the sound of a book being closed, and then the sensation of a gentle hand on his nose, before he drifted away.

 

He awoke the next morning to find Laurence and Tharkay having breakfast, peaceably, in the pavilion, and the cook already laying out a very large omelet for himself. Temeraire eyed it, very tempted, but it was already eleven, coming onto noon. The day in London would be starting soon, and he could not risk any hour in which his quarry might get away from him.

 

“You may leave off your quest, my dear, and enjoy your breakfast instead,” said Laurence, reading his mind. “He has already fled the country.”

 

Temeraire took this information with suspicion. “I do not see why someone with such little sense as to insult Roland would have the wits to leave England,” said Temeraire. “You are not only saying that to keep me from killing him?”

 

“No, Temeraire,” said Laurence, with some amusement. “You may even read it for yourself if you like, it is all printed up in the paper.”

 

“Whyever should it be in the newspapers?” Temeraire asked.

 

Laurence looked up in surprise. “He is a poet of some repute, my dear. You did not know?”

 

“No,” said Temeraire, and listened with rising indignation to the explanation of the gentleman’s fame. “And to think I so enjoyed _The Corsair_!” he said with disgust. “I shall certainly never read anything by this Lord Bryon again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for commenting on this silly, silly fic of mine.


	6. An Afternoon Rout

_...and then the Knave, having less Wit than previously guessed, must feel compelled to wander to Gibraltar and promptly make an Ass of himself in public. I suppose it will not surprise you that our young Captain, who has had his head filled with many absurd Ideas on the subject of how Gentlemen ought behave by Someone Whom I Shall Not Name, has publicly attempted to Call him out._

_But this is all boring Stuff, as I doubt the infernal Poet shall attempt to fight a beast of thirty tons any more than twenty. You may console Emily that Admiral Corker, who is a very good fellow, will hardly allow Demane to run this Lord Byron through when she has not yet had the chance, which I don’t suppose anyone can consider to be consistent with Gallantry._

_I will be in London next week, unless I mistake their Lordships; until then, give my regards to Temeraire, and by no means let him legislate us out of our business, and constrain him, if you can, from murdering young Lords for being fools. Otherwise we will soon have wholesale Slaughter of our Peers, which I am sure will be a great tragedy for the Realm, and so forth._

_Yours etc,_

_Jane_

* * *

 

 

If Laurence had not before now received evidence to the contrary, he would have suspected Temeraire to be indefatigable. He attended every doing, no matter how minor, of Parliament, traded gossip with Artis, drafted an apparently endless parade of new legislation, and still found time to talk of more dinner engagements and balls.

 

It was nothing Laurence was not born to, with a father in the House of Lords and an accomplished political hostess as a mother, but he had to confess himself surprised to find himself in the mix again, having left much of that life behind at the age of twelve. He did not mean to complain, of course, he reflected, as he walked rather quickly to avoid the approach of Mrs. Hollins, who had three daughters. No one could say that Temeraire did not deserve to be given satisfaction on all points, including the enjoyment of wider society. He spotted Mrs. Hembroke approaching from the other direction and detoured through some well-placed vases. Still, he could not help but feel—

 

“My dear William!” cooed a familiar voice.

 

Laurence squared his shoulders, caught at last. He turned.

 

"Lady Brenlow," he said, very grave. "And Miss Brenlow, I see."

 

“Oh, what a marvelous afternoon this is!” exclaimed Lady Brenlow. "It is positively enchanting to meet you here.”

 

"This is my house," said Laurence.

 

"And it is magnificent!" Lady Brenlow hastened to assure him. "Don't you think, my dear?"

 

"Oh!" Margaret seemed surprised to have been pressed for her opinion. She looked up at the plastered ceiling as if to assess it for the first time. "Er, yes, of course—"

 

"Now, now, dear!" cried her mother, with a high, fluttering laugh. "Do not lay it on too thickly! The good admiral will think you are setting your cap at him!" She glanced coyly at Laurence to see how he would receive this.

 

"Not at all," said Laurence. Coldness crept into his tone; more perhaps than this piece of harmless coquetry had warranted, for they looked at him with alarm in their faces. Lady Brenlow seemed only mildly startled, but Laurence could see true anxiety in Margaret’s face, her eyes too pale and wide.

 

A pang of guilt struck him. "Not at all," he said again, more gently. "Perhaps you would care to take a tour of the residence, Miss Brenlow?"

 

Margaret dropped her eyes to the floor. Her mother, however, instantly reassured by a sentiment so favorable to her own, eagerly consented on her behalf, and silently Margaret slipped her arm up to his proffered elbow. Laurence glanced at her downturned features, pale eyes carefully scanning the floor ahead as if anxious to avoid tripping—a losing proposition—and thought, not for the first time, that she reminded him of a painting varnished thinly with whitewash, or a lake filigreed with ice; underneath, perhaps, there was color and life, but his eye could not discern it from the surface.

 

They passed from the parlor when he had been so neatly cornered, through the press of the crowd and into one of the pavilions, where an astonishing number of card-tables had been set up. The gathering, although sizeable for an afternoon rout, would have been dwarfed a dozen times over by the room if not for Temeraire, squeezed into fully half the pavilion and holding court over what looked to be a veritable sea of muslin gowns. Laurence glanced over to see if Temeraire needed him, but he was deep in a conversation audible from across the room: fascinated, apparently, by the difference between a pelisse and a riding coat.

 

Thinking instead to offer Miss Brenlow some refreshment, he gradually steered the party towards the end tables, loaded with delicacies and punch. She made very faint replies to his polite questions, but he need not have bothered directing them to her; Lady Brenlow, walking behind them so close that she might have been a particularly talkative bustle, was energetic in forwarding her daughter’s cause, and gave the answers she evidently felt her daughter ought to have given, and louder. With relief Laurence reached a table loaded with scones.

 

“May I assist you, Miss Brenlow—?”

 

“You most certainly can, dear William! How thoughtful you are, to be sure. I am always saying to Margaret that she is far too skinny; she would come wonderfully into her looks if she were only more plump, do you not think? Margaret, do eat this, do not be rude to the good admiral.”

 

With a great effort Laurence managed to say something meaningless and polite, and abruptly found himself unable to accomplish anything more. Margaret herself continued silent, nibbling unenthusiastically at her treat. Into the brief lull of conversation came the voices of a nearby group of young ladies, talking over one another animatedly.

 

"Stayed up half the night, you simply must read it—"

 

"—a coronet—"

 

“—as the lady said, mad, bad, and dangerous—”

 

“—a _coronet_ —”

 

"—and if he should really make an offer for me, as his friends often threaten that he will, why—I might pull off a Charlotte Greenbriar myself!" They laughed, clearly understanding more of the joke than Laurence himself. Across from him, Margaret Brenlow started, her cheek pale.

 

"I beg your pardon," she said, in a voice barely audible over the steady current of conversation that surrounded them. "I would be glad of some air."

 

It would never have occurred to Laurence not to offer his arm, and Margaret accepted just as mechanically; they proceeded out the thrown-open doors onto the wide grassy yard, Lady Brenlow crowding along behind them.

 

Other guests had come out as well, taking advantage of a rare seasonally warm day and, perhaps, enjoying the novelty of a countryside atmosphere in the midst of the London season. Most were walking in pairs, some with a discreet chaperone some distance behind them, but one pair walked alone, dark heads turned towards each other, apparently deep in conversation. Then the taller looked up, as if sensing Laurence’s eyes on him. Laurence felt a pleasurable start of recognition: it was Tharkay.

 

His companion looked up as well, and gave a shriek of pleasure that jerked several couples out of their reveries. Diana tore off her bonnet and thrust it into Tharkay’s hands without ceremony.

 

“Margaret!” she cried, with such obviously unfeigned delight that Laurence could not help smiling himself. She rushed over, heedless of the dark hair falling every which way out of her bun; quite unseemly, and yet somehow fetching nonetheless. “I _had_ hoped to see you here. And Sir William, of course—I hope you are well? I am afraid I shall have to steal Margaret away from you, if you can bear it! Margaret, do forgive me,” she continued, turning to her friend, “but this gentlemen—” She waved her hand vaguely at Tharkay, still holding her bonnet with a bemused expression, “has just informed me that that charming man, Mr. Hammond, is here, and I simply must find him. You must provide me with some veneer of deniability.”

 

“I beg your pardon!” said Lady Brenlow indignantly; she had so far been ignored completely by Diana. “I am afraid Margaret is engaged at the moment—“

 

“I am sure I glimpsed Mr. Hammond at one of the card tables,” said Margaret eagerly, giving no sign she had heard her mother at all. “Shall we go watch them play?”

 

Diana had already seized her hand and was pulling her along. “Oh, how can you ask when you already know the answer? You _do_ have the best ideas. I wonder if they are playing high stakes!”

 

“This is far too much, Miss Hope!” said Lady Brenlow angrily, but only to the swish of muslin as they disappeared back into the pavilion; both girls were already gone.

 

For a moment there was a furious look in Lady Brenlow’s eye, the equal in rage to any hard-horse captain Laurence had ever known in the navy. Attempting to regain herself, she smiled thinly and said, "What a spirited and unusual girl that Miss Hope is, do you not agree? So very tragic her circumstances, yet she manages to put a brave face on it, conducting herself as if her father is a gentlemen, when all the world knows she is the daughter of a rug merchant, and pities her for it! I should never have the courage. And her mother of course is dead, poor creature; they say she drank an entire bottle of laudanum when she learned she had a daughter rather than a son. But only vile gossips put that about; I urge you gentlemen to put it out of your heads. Poor child, and you can see in her the danger of having grown up without any motherly influence! Indeed, you can see the contrast in her to my own dear Margaret, so sweet and well-behaved. The two are so very different that they should never be acquaintances at all were it not for me encouraging her to make friends with Miss Hope, as a kind of charity to a poor motherless girl who is not our equal in rank. Margaret is always doing such good deeds, is she not a lovely, sweet girl?”

 

Tharkay said nothing, amused rather than not, and Laurence, taken aback at being presented with such a question, could not help but need a moment to finish gathering his wits, but Lady Brenlow did not seem to need a reply.

 

“I was terribly heartbroken that Margaret’s good influence was not enough to save Miss Hope from making friends with Charlotte Greenbriar, who was a very rascally, disreputable sort of girl who managed to break her parent’s hearts. It is such a pity! Miss Hope can certainly be charming, but there is no doubt she will come to the same bad end.”

 

“Miss Greenbriar has joined the Corps, has she not?” asked Laurence, bemused.

 

“A monstrous scandal,” said Lady Brenlow with relish, temporarily forgetting herself. “Threw over a baron and his coronet to consort with dragons.”

 

“A terrible fate, to be sure,” said Tharkay.

 

“Oh,” said Lady Brenlow, stricken. “Of course I have no objection to _dragons_. No one could have an objection to _dragons_ , particularly not to dear Temeraire. I even have some dragons in my own employ.”

 

As these dragons were employed as spies in Laurence’s household, this could not recommend her to him. But Tharkay only said,

 

“Yes, and I can only imagine there especially can be no objection to a dragon if he also comes with the coronet.”

 

Lady Brenlow went away shortly after this, and Laurence and Tharkay proceeded to walk over the grounds, weaving in between various ferals, who were hanging around the edges of clusters of guests, listening avidly to society gossip. By mutual accord they navigated towards the more isolated regions of the grounds, seeking privacy. Company, Laurence knew, was not what Tharkay preferred; he had been surprised to find that he had come to the rout at all, and suspected that it was to bear him company. He was grateful for it. Laurence would gladly have been absent himself, but quite aside from the strange appearance it must bear to the company, he did not think he would be able to bear having to make his excuses to Temeraire, and making them to Lady Allendale was not even to be considered. Emily Roland had made the attempt, but her defiance had fizzled a few words in, as Lady Allendale only looked at Emily smiling, and kindly assured her that she must not do anything she did not like to. In the end she had come down in her gown with the stiff resolve of a soldier going into an engagement.

 

“It seems to me the word _rout_ is too accurately used to describe these social matters,” remarked Tharkay. “I have seldom seen Napoleon himself put you to such dismay.”

 

“I have certainly spent the evening engaged in full retreat,” Laurence noted drily. “That makes twice now that you have rescued me from unwelcome attentions.”

 

Tharkay hesitated, an odd expression passing briefly over his face. “As long as they _are_ unwelcome,” he said.

 

Laurence smiled at this piece of jesting. “Have no fears on that front. Indeed, I find myself wishing more and more to withdraw from my circle of acquaintances, rather than add to them; I am become quite a recluse in my advancing age."

 

He thought, with not a little longing, of Tharkay's residence in Northumberland, where they had spent the winter. He found himself wishing impractically he could be there instead, waking with crisp highland air in his lungs, and the great wind raised by Temeraire's wings whipping at his windows; Tharkay kept few servants, and for the most part their days had been spent in solitude, he and Temeraire and Tharkay.

 

"I do not believe anyone could reasonably call you a recluse, no matter how much you might welcome it,” said Tharkay dryly. “I can, however, offer my assistance towards that happy goal. My position in life may come with few powers, but I like to make use of them where I can. It should certainly be a rare specimen that likes to blight her chances by being seen with me.”

 

He frowned as he said this, however. “There are, I suppose, exceptions to every rule. Whatever am I do to with this?” and held up Diana Hope’s bonnet, which he had been carrying so long that they had forgotten it.

 

“We shall have to return it to her,” Laurence said in dismay.

 

"That was her purpose in forgetting it with us, I think," said Tharkay. "I see she is not one of those un-enterprising spirits that settles for one in the hand when she might also have several in the bush. We may as well return it; I admit myself curious to see how far her power over Hammond has progressed.”

 

“She may not like her chances after all,” said Laurence. “I never knew him to have much in the way of sensibility. In his own marriage, I cannot imagine he will let anything rule him save his own ambitions.”

 

“I suspect they are alike, in that regard,” said Tharkay.

 

But when they reached the pavilion again, they did not find Miss Hope watching the card tables, nor flirting one-sidedly with poor hapless Hammond, but rather deep in conversation with Emily Roland, who had endured the rout with a sort of grim determination. Her stubbornly set jaw had been replaced, however, with a sort of skeptical curiosity. She was not contributing much to the conversation; Diana Hope was talking volubly enough for two—three, Laurence realized as he got closer. Margaret had been hovering behind Diana, rendered invisible by her friend's presence.

 

"—and I daresay I have the bravest horses in all England; saving the King, of course. Perhaps you will go riding with us? I have not had a riding partner since dear Charlotte—" She broke off suddenly. "Sir William! Mr. Tharkay! Do join us. We were just speaking of our love of horse-riding."

 

"We were?" said Emily.

 

"Your bonnet, I believe," said Tharkay, bowing.

 

Diana accepted it with an elegant gesture of thanks, and donning it again said teasingly,

 

"And how do you do, Mr. Tharkay? You have been walking with our host, I see, when you are not rescuing wayward hats. Is the company so little to your liking, or do you not see enough of our host elsewise, even with all the long hours of the day?” Diana smiled a little as she said this, giving the words a warmer glow than a day’s acquaintance merited. She had lined her eyes to make them darker, as if she knew that was where Tenzing's tastes laid; a strong sense of disapproval came over Laurence, wholly unwelcome and irrational.

 

"I could wish for no better company," said Tharkay simply, himself unperturbed, and Laurence forced himself to swallow his irritation. Tharkay turned to him, an eyebrow quirking faintly up.

 

"By the by,” he said, “Where is Temeraire?"

 

“Why, he is—” Laurence began, and then turned and looked, much startled; it was very out of the common way for a twenty ton dragon to disappear at an evening party, but Temeraire was indeed nowhere to be seen.

 

“Dear lord,” he said. “But where could he have gone?”

 

“Off to discuss that book, I think,” said Emily, with ill-concealed annoyance. “They said they didn’t want to reveal the ending to anyone who hadn’t finished reading.”

 

“My goodness! But what else could the ending be, other than the lady falls in love and marries?” asked Diana in astonishment. “Is there really anything worth concealing in _that_?”

 

“Yes, but,” Margaret put in timidly, “doesn’t it matter with whom she falls in love?”

 

Diana turned to her smiling. “Only for romantic souls like you, my dear,” she said with great affection. “I am sure love is a very wonderful thing, but as we women can generally only have one or the other, I should much prefer to have marriage.”

 

“I cannot at all disagree with your assessment of her,” said Laurence to Tharkay, later, as they wandered the grounds in search of Temeraire. They were making a thorough search of all the various pavilions that dotted the estate. Too thorough, perhaps; they had wandered far beyond the range of where a group of society girls would have walked merely to discuss a novel, but they were both happy to expend time, walking in the twisting pebbly garden that had been built in the Chinese style, dropped improbably into the plain English landscape.

 

“If it is any consolation to you, I think she means for it to be over quickly,” said Tharkay, with dry amusement. “When we spoke earlier, she was full of plans for reaching an understanding with Churki; I see she has quickly come to an astute understanding of the situation,” rather understating the case, Laurence thought.

 

They made nearly a full circuit of the grounds before they finally found Temeraire; he was indeed much closer to the house, in a pavilion made to look like an old ruin, the construction of which Laurence had  rather disapproved of, and thought the name “folly” was all too fitting for. Ridiculous to find a crumbling structure from the Norman court on an estate not half a year old, but Temeraire had allowed himself to be talked into it by an over-enthusiastic architect. Laurence could hear Temeraire’s voice rumbling inside, becoming clearer as they neared the entrance.

 

“Certainly he made a bad first impression, but he ought to have given the gold to _her_ , straightaway, in order to correct it; I do not see why he had to give it to that dreadful Mr. Wickham instead. For that matter, it seems to me that her poor sister had no business marrying him, at all, even if he did receive that fortune. It is not as if he was like Laurence, and had his fortune taken away because he had no choice but to be heroic; we can all see that he means to lose it again as soon as possible. But still I cannot allow any comparisons between Wickham and Henry Crawford. It seems to me that Crawford had made an imminently suitable offer to our Fanny, and if he hadn’t accomplished anything particularly notable, why, neither had _she_. I don’t see any reason why she should dislike him so.”

 

There was an immediate outcry at this, girlish voices protesting and calling the character in question a scoundrel and a rake; but only formally, it seemed to Laurence, for when they had all grown quiet a clear young voice commented that for four thousand per annum she should call it a bargain to have her husband also be a rake, which should at least be good for one thing, and they all giggled.

 

"But," the girl continued, "I cannot call it anything but wearing for poor Fanny to be pressured so into marriage if she did not like it, and I don't imagine she would have been accepted into the Corps, to escape."

 

"No, Fanny is nothing like Charlotte," said another voice thoughtfully, as Laurence paused outside the door, not liking to intrude on what was obviously private gossip, which he should then have to admit to having heard. "I can think of who she does resemble, however, and if we say that Charlotte is instead Mary Crawford, shall we speculate that the corresponding pair in Mansfield Park had the same sort of understanding? Mary was so very eager for them to be—” an insinuating pause— “ _sisters_ ,” finished the girl, and they all laughed again.

 

Temeraire spoke again, steering the conversation to other aspects of the book; if he was confused, it did not show in his voice. Laurence steeled himself and stepped through the door.

 

The conversation halted immediately, as did Laurence himself, somewhat discomfited by the circle of stares from half a dozen girls and their chaperones, but Temeraire, lounging out comfortably with his tail by the entrance, did not immediately notice.

 

“Well,” he was saying, in a conciliatory tone, “I do not see why anyone should want to marry at all, in the first place, even if the treasure is very large or if love is as nice as they say it is. Why, Laurence will certainly not—Oh! Laurence, we were just discussing that very lovely book we finished last night. Have you come to join us?”

 

Laurence without any hesitation demurred at once.

 

"Your guests, I believe, are looking for you," said Laurence, not a falsehood; Lady Allendale had indeed mentioned in passing, as he belatedly found her in the crowd, that she would have liked to introduce Temeraire to some of the late arrivals. Laurence had with some disingenuity immediately taken that as instruction; he would normally have been ashamed to use such a flimsy excuse to leave a social gathering, but he had begun to run down his sadly diminished store of social niceties. “I see you are occupied, however; ought I to carry your regrets?”

 

“No, I do see I’ve stayed away too long,” said Temeraire regretfully, beginning to get up. “I hope Lady Allendale will not think me rude for going, only there always seems to be so much to say about a book that one really enjoys, and not enough people to do it with.”

 

Laurence managed something vaguely reassuring, his attention turning back to Tharkay, lounging just out of the frame of the doorway.

 

“I hope I do not bore you,” he said apologetically. It occurred to him that he had indeed been monopolizing Tharkay’s attention; nothing could be more boorish, he was sure, than to insist upon a man’s company, simply because he could little stand the company of any other. Then, too, a disinclination for greater society, such as that Tharkay professed, did not imply a preference for _his_ to the exclusion of all else.

 

Tharkay only looked wry.

 

"I urge you to have no fear of that," said Tharkay. "Sufficient amusements tend to present themselves wherever you go. Indeed, I rather believe instead that you will shortly have a very great surfeit of boredom.”

 

Behind them, Temeraire said:

 

“Oh, am I being terribly rude? Yes, of course you ought to be introduced. Laurence, Laurence—I hope I may present you—this is Miss Maria Tinnsworth, and also these other twelve, who I have been talking with, would like to make your acquaintance—shall we all walk back to the party together?"

 

Laurence, despairing, had to console himself that no one could excuse them of not being well-chaperoned, with six governesses to guard the ladies’ virtue, and a twenty-ton dragon to guard his.

 

The rest of the afternoon passed on slowly; too slowly, although Laurence was guiltily aware that he had succeeded in avoiding the great majority of the party. Or not so guilty, he realized, but rather guilty over his very lack of guilt.

 

He was able to restrain himself however from joining into Emily's loud expression of relief, when the party was over, although he rather sympathized with the sentiments. Lady Allendale looked up from where she was supervising the servants.

 

"Did you not enjoy yourself, Emily?" she asked. "You were talking with Miss Hope and Miss Brenlow all night."

 

"Oh, them," said Emily dismissively. "I suppose they're all right, as they're the only ones with enough wit to talk of anything other than the admiral." She pitched her voice high in scornful mimicry. "Oh, that Sir William! He's so handsome! Such a hero! What an honor it would be to be his wife!"

 

"Oh dear," said Laurence.

 

There was a pause, as Emily looked at him awkwardly, having apparently forgotten he was there, and then Temeraire stuck his head into the conversation—quite literally—and made the doorway between them shake.

 

"I beg your pardon," he said indignantly, "but why should any them of them be his wife at all?"

 

“Oh dear,” said Tharkay, in softly amused tones. “Why indeed?”


End file.
